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FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON.  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 
THE   LIBRARY  OF 
NCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


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Z'e, 


A 


Sacred    Song 


H  IDoIume  of  "Religious  Derse 


SELECTED  AND  ARRANGED    WITH  NOTES 

SAMUEL    WADDINGTOX 


»*» 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
WHITE  AND  ALLEN 


to 

THE    MEMORY 
OF 

Slrfljuc  ^cnrijpit  Stanley. 


PREFACE. 


A  QUARTER  of  a  century  has  now  elapsed  since  Lord 
Selborne  (then  Sir  Roundell  Palmer)  published  his 
selection  of  hymns  and  sacred  song,  entitled,  "  The  Book 
of  Praise."  During  the  intervening  years  many  and  great 
changes  have  occurred,  and  especially  noticeable  are  the 
alterations  which  have  taken  place  in  the  spiritual  utterances 
and  religious  tone  of  the  age,  tempered  by  the  growing 
intelligence,  and  wider  knowledge  and  sympathies,  of  all 
classes.  A  new  eirenikon  has  breathed  a  holier  influence 
over  diverse  worshippers,  and  has  sanctified  whatever  is 
purifying  and  ennobling,  whatever  opens  to  us  the  gates  of 
righteousness.  In  accord  with  this  change  in  our  religious 
atmosphere  and  moral  environment,  an  endeavour  has 
been  made  in  the  present  selection  to  render  it  as  catholic 
and  comprehensive  as  possible,  so  that  the  holy  singers 
of  all  sects  might  be  represented  therein.  Not  Paul,  nor 
Apollos,  nor  Cephas,  has  been  chosen  as  the  master,  but 
rather  has  the  example  of  David  been  followed,  who  set 
over  the  service  of  song  in  the  house  of  the  Eternal  those 
who  ministered  before  the  dwelling-place  of  the  tabernacle. 
"  There  is  somewhat  of  Heaven,"  writes  Richard  Baxter, 
14  in  Holy  Poetry  :  it  charmeth  souls  into  loving  harmony 


vi  PREFACE. 

and  concord  : "  and  there  is  little  reason  to  doubt  that  this 
is  true,  with  but  few  exceptions,  of  the  sacred  lyrics  of  all 
ages,  whatever  may  have  been  the  special  religious  tenets  of 
the  poets  who  composed  them.  We  say,  "with  but  few 
exceptions,"  because,  much  as  it  is  to  be  regretted,  there  are 
always  to  be  found  those  who  (to  use  Dr.  George  Mac 
Donald's  words)  "creep  from  the  sunshine  into  every  ruined 
archway,  attracted  by  the  brilliance  with  which  the  light 
from  its  loophole  glows  in  its  caverned  gloom,  and  the  hope 
of  discovering  within  it  the  first  steps  of  a  stair  winding  up 
into  the  blue  heaven."  Yet  what,  as  Baxter  himself  pro- 
ceeds to  observe,  "  what  is  Heaven  to  us,  if  there  be  no 
love  and  joy  ?  " 

As  in  music  and  painting,  so  also  in  poetry,  it  is  to  the 
portrayal,  or  expression,  of  religious  thought  and  emotion 
that  we  are  indebted  for  many  of  our  highest  works  of  art. 
Neither  Raffaelle  nor  Leonardo,  neither  Handel  nor  Beet- 
hoven, can  exclusively  claim  our  gratitude  and  reverence, 
but  Dante  and  Milton,  Heber,  Keble,  and  George  Herbert 
must  also  share  our  admiration,  our  love  and  thanksgiving. 
And  with  these  follow  the  innumerable  throng  of  bards  who 
have  ministered,  and  who  still  minister,  with  their  service  of 
song  among  the  devout  worshippers  and  holy  choristers,  in 
the  conventicle  or  in  the  cathedral.  Nor  is  it  in  the  con- 
venticle, nor  in  the  cathedral,  alone  that  we  hear  their 
voices  ;  but  in  the  green  meadows,  and  among  the  mountain 
solitudes,  singers  such  as  Wordsworth  and  Spenser,  Coleridge 
and  Vaughan,  have  mingled  their  chant  of  praise  with  that 
of  poets  of  the  temple,  such  as  were  Wither  and  Isaac  Watts, 
Sandys,  Crashaw,  Faber,  and  Wesley.  In  his  paper  on 
"Sacred  Poetry,"  which  appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review 
for  June,  1825,  Keble  observes  that  "  it  is  to  Spenser  that 
the  English  reader  must  revert  as  being  pre-eminently  the 


PREFACE.  vii 

sacred  poet  of  his  country  :  " — but  we  suspect  that  there  are 
many  readers  who,  in  search  of  divine  sustenance  on  their 
way  through  the  world,  have  found  a  greater  spiritual  power, 
and  a  closer  intercourse  with  the  solemn  verities  of  religion, 
in  the  poems  of  Wordsworth  than  in  those  of  Spenser,  or, 
indeed,  of  any  other  English  poet.  And,  for  our  own  part, 
we  would  willingly  concur  with  those  who  affirm  that  they 
know  of  no  bard  who  more  truly  deserves  to  be  classed 
with  the  great  sacred  writers  of  all  ages,  than  the  transatlantic 
poet,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  who  might  well  be  designated 
the  Wordsworth  of  America.  His  poems  are  full  of  holiness 
and  spiritual  sublimity.     Listen  for  a  moment  to  his  words  : 


';  So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon, — but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 


Lines  such  as  these  are  inspired  by  the  quickening  spirit 
of  truth  and  sanctity,  of  that  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
of  the  calm  solitudes  the  poet  loved  so  well.  If  it  is  poetry 
of  the  highest  order  that  we  seek,  lines  such  as  these  should 
not  be  disregarded.  "The  best  poetry,"  writes  Mr.  Matthew 
Arnold  in  his  introduction  to  Mr.  Humphry  Ward's  English 
Poets,  "is  what  we  want;  the  best  poetry  will  be  found  to 
have  a  power  of  forming,  sustaining,  and  delighting  us,  as 
nothing  else  can  :  a  clearer,  deeper  sense  of  the  best  in 
poetry,  and  of  the  strength  and  joy  to  be  drawn  from  it,  is 


viii  PREFACE. 

the  most  precious  benefit  which  we  can  gather  from  a 
poetical  collection  such  as  the  present."  And  what  is  the  best 
of  poetry,  we  would  ask,  but  that  which,  deriving  its  inspira- 
tion from  heaven,  most  fully  illuminates  with  its  "sweetness 
and  light "  the  dark  shadowy  regions  of  the  earth  ? 

It  will  be  noticed  that  many  well-known  sacred  lyrics  of 
great  beauty  have  been  omitted  from  the  present  selection, 
and  it  is  for  the  reason  that  they  are  so  well  known  that  they 
have  been  omitted.  Thus  the  editor  has  deemed  it  un- 
necessary to  include  such  popular  hymns  as  the  Rev.  H.  F. 
Lyte's  "  Abide  with  Me!"  Cardinal  Newman's  "Lead, 
kindly  Light,"  Mrs.  S.  F.  Adams's,  "  Nearer,  my  God,  to 
Thee,"  Bishop  Heber's  "  Trinity  Hymn,"  and  many  other 
similarly  well-known  compositions.  For  this  reason,  too,  he 
has  omitted  the  Rev.  Augustus  Toplady's  "  Rock  of  Ages," 
of  which  the  following  is  a  Latin  translation  by  Mr.  Glad- 
stone, written  some  years  ago  : — 


Jesus,  pro  me  perforatum 
Condar  intra  Tuum  latus, 
Tu,  per  lympham  profluentem, 
Tu,  per  sanguinem  tepentem, 
In  peecata  mi  redunda, 
Tolle  culpam,  sordes  munda. 

Coram  Te,  ncc  Justus  forem, 
Quamvis  tota  vi  laborem  ; 
Nee  si  fide  nunquam  cesso, 
Fletu  stillans,  indefesso  : 
Tibi  soli  tantum  munus, 
Salva  Tu,  Salvator  unus. 


Nil  in  maim  mecum  f<  .    . 
Sed  me  versus  crucem  w  ro  : 


PREFACE.  ix 

Vestimenta  nudu 

( )pem  debilis  imploro  : 

Fontem  Christ]  quaero  immundus 

Nisi  laves,  moribundus. 

Dum  hos  artus  Vila  regit, 
Quando  nox  sepulchro  tegit 
Mortuos  cum  stare  jubes, 
Sedens  Judex  inter  nubes, 
Jesus,  pro  me  perforatus, 
Condar  intra  Tuum  latus. 

The  above  is  an  interesting  translation,  and  the  editor  has  to 
thank  Mr.  Gladstone  for  kindly  forwarding  him  an  autograph 
copy  of  it. 

With  a  view  to  secure  freshness  and  variety,  any  chrono- 
logical, or  alphabetical,  arrangement  of  the  authors  has  been 
avoided,  nor  have  poems  by  the  same  author  been  printed 
together.  This  is  a  matter  respecting  which  tastes  and 
judgments  will  differ,  but  if  it  be  admitted  that  monotony 
in  a  selection  of  poems  is  to  be  deprecated,  it  would  appear 
to  be  manifest  that  that  arrangement  is  the  best  of  which 
the  method  is  not  apparent.  It  is,  however,  desirable  that 
the  reader  should  know  the  respective  dates  at  which  the 
poems  quoted  were  written,  and  a  list  of  the  authors  showing 
the  period  during  which  they  lived  will  be  found  at  the  end 
of  the  volume.  In  the  case  of  poets  who  are  still  living 
the  dates  have,  of  course,  been  omitted. 

It  only  remains  for  the  editor  to  express  his  thanks  to 
those  authors  who  have  given  him  permission  to  include 
various  copyright  poems  of  which  the  number  is  consider- 
able, and  especially  to  thank  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench, 
&  Co.,  for  allowing  him  to  print  the  poems  by  Mr.  Lewis 
Morris  and  the  late  Archbishop  Trench ;  and  Messrs. 
Macmillan  &  Co.,  those  by  Charles  Kingsley.     He  also  begs 


x  PREFACE. 

to  thank  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder,&Co.,  for  permission  to  include 
the  poem  by  George  Eliot  entitled  "  O  may  I  join  the  Choir 
Invisible;"  and  Messrs.  Nisbct  &  Co.,  those  by  Dr.  Horatius 
Bonar.  lie  trusts  that  if  in  any  case  he  has  inadvertently 
omitted  to  obtain  permission  to  include  a  poem  of  which  the 
copyright  has  not  expired,  the  proprietor  will  pardon  the 
oversight. 

SAMUEL  WADDINGTON. 

47,  CONNAUGHT    STREET, 

Hvde  Park,  W. 

April,  i SSS. 


CONTEXTS. 


PAGE 

PREFACE  ...  .  .  .  V 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW — 

Proem  ......  .     xxiv 

WILLIAM    BLAKE — 

I.  "  Hear  the  Voice  of  the  Bard  "  i 

HENRY   ALFORD — 

II.  Not  War,  nor  hurrying  Troops  from  Plain  to  Plain      .  2 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH — 

III.  Ode  to  Duty     ......  3 

REGINALD    HEBER — 

IV.  "  Forth  from  the  dark  and  stormy  sky  "  .  .6 

JEREMY    TAYLOR — 

V.  The  Prayer         ......  7 

SIR    WALTER    RALEIGH — 

VI.  Hymn.  ......  S 

FREDERICK   WILLIAM    FABER — 

VII.  The  Eternity  of  God  ....  9 


xii  CONTENTS. 


JOHN    HENRY    NEWMAN— 

VIII.  From  "The  Dream  of  Gerontius"  .  .  .         12 

[SAAC    WA1  I 

IX.  Psalm  XC-       •  •  •  •  •  T3 

GEORGE  HERBERT — 

X.  "  Sweet  Day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright"        .  .         15 

EDMUND   SPENSER — 

XI.  Easter  Morning  .  .  •  •  .         U 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT — 

XII.  Mary  Magdalen  .  .  ■  •  r." 

JOHN    DONNE 

XIII.  A  Hymn  to  God  the  Father  .  .  19 

ROBERT    HERRICK — 

XIV.  Eternity         ...•••         -° 

CHARLES    KINGSLEV 

XV.  The  Day  of  the  Lord  .  •  .  .21 

RICHARD    CHENEVIX   TRENCH — 

XVI.  The  Holy  Eucharist  .  .  .  .         23 

HENRY    FRANCIS    LYTE — 

XVII.  "  Far  from  my  Heavenly  Home "  .  .  •        -4 

ARTHUR    PENRHYN    STANLEY — 

XVIII*     "  O  Master,  it  is  good  to  be  "  ■  25 

FRANCIS    TURNER    PALGRAVE — 

XIX.     The  Daystar  27 


CONTENTS.  xiii 


CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI  — 

XX.  Weary  in  Well-doing  .  .  .  .29 

ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH — 

XXI.  Qui  Laborat,  Orat     .....         30 

JOSEPH    ADDISON — 

XXII.  A  Pastoral  Ode        .....         32 

GEORGE    HERBERT — ■ 

XXIII.  The  Quip  ......         33 

REX   JOXSOX — 

XXIV.  Hymn  to  God  the  Father   .  .  .  -35 

FREDERICK    WILLIAM    FARRAR — 

XXV.  Hymn  .  .  .  .  •  •         37 

JOHN    KEELE — 

XXVI.  Mountain  Scenery  .  .  .  .  .38 

JOHN    MILTON 

XXVII.  At  a  Solemn  Music  .  .  .  .40 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

XXVIII.  Monica's  Last  Prayer       .  .  .  .41 

HENRY    VAUGHAN — 

XXIX.  ';  They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  n         .         42 

EDWARD    DOWDEN 

XXX.  Communion  ......         44 

RICHARD    CRASHAW — 

XXXI.  Christ's  Victory       .....         45 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

ALEXANDER    POPE — 

XXXII.  The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul  •  .  .47 

RICHARD    CHENEVIX    TRENCH  — 

XXXIII.  Rejoice  Evermore  .  .  .  .48 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

XXXIV.  In  Exitu  Israel      .....         50 

ROBERT    HERRICK — 

XXXV.  His  Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit        ...         52 

FREDERICK    \V.    H.    MYERS — 

XXXVI.  From  "  Saint  Paul"         ....         54 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW  — 

XXXVII.  "  My  Redeemer  and  my  Lord  "  .  -57 

THOMAS    TOKE    LYNCH — 

XXXVIII.  "Spirit!  whose  Various  Energies :'      .  .         5S 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD — 

XXXIX.  The  Divinity        .....         60 

HENRY   ALFORD — 

XL.     "  Little  Children,  dwell  in  Love  "  .  .61 

JOHN    BYROM — 

XLI.     "  My  spirit  longeth  for  thee"  .  .  .62 

HORATIUS    BONAR — 

XLII.     "  He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well  63 

WILLIAM    COWPER — 

XLIII.     "  Lovest  Thou  Me  "  ....         65 


CONTENTS.  xv 

PAGE 

SAMUEL    TAYLOR    COLERIDGE — 

XLIV.     My  Baptismal  Birthday       .  .  .  .67 

RICHARD    WILTON 

XLV.     The  Garden  of  the  Soul        .  .  .  .63 

GEORGE    HERBERT — 

XLYI.     The  Search.  .  .  .  .  .70 

SIR    THOMAS    BROWNE  — 

XLVII.     From "  Religio  Medici "  .  .  73 

WILLIAM    HABINGTON 

XLVIII.     Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientiam       .  .  -75 

GEORGE  MACDONALD — 

XLIX.     Marriage  Song         .  .  .  .  *         77 

CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI 

L.     After  Communion  .  .  .  .  .79 

JOSEPH    GRIGG — 

LI.      "  Behold  !  a  Stranger's  at  the  Door  "  80 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT 

LIE     Hymn  to  the  North  Star         .  .  .  .82 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY 

LIII.     Linger  no  more,  my  beloved  .  .  .84 

CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI — 

LIV.     Dost  thou  not  Care    .....         85 

JOHN    EMMET — 

LV.     A  Litany  ......         S6 


xviii  CONTEXTS. 

I'AGE 

RICHARD    W.    GILDER 

LXXX.     A  Madonna  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi    .  •  .143 

LEWIS    MORRIS  — 

LXXXI.    Behind  the  Veil    .  .  ,  .  144 

FREDERICK    W.    II.    MYER2 

LXXXII.     Saint  John  the  Bap;:  .  .  .146 

JOHN    KEBLE — 

LXXXIII.     Christ  in  the  Garden     .  .  .  151 

WILLIAM    COWPER — 

LXXXI V.     The  Waiting  Soul  .  .  ,  .154 

EDMUND  GOSSE — 

LXXXV.     The  Heavenward  Pilgrimage       .  .  -155 

SAMUEL   WADDINGTON — 

LXXXVI.     "Christ  is  not  Dead ;?  .  .  •  157 

RICHARD    W.    GILDER 

LXXXVII.     Morning  and  Night      .  .  .  158 

JOHN    AUSTIN — 

LXXXVIII.     Blest  be  thy  love,  dear  Lord  .  .  159 

ROBERT    STEPHEN    HAWKER — 

LXXXIX.     The  Silent  Tower  of  Bottreau  .  .  .160 

ISAAC    WILLIAMS 

XC.     The  Child  lean-  on  its  Parent's  Breast  .  .       163 

THOMAS    TOK.E    LYNCH — 

XCI.     Gracious  Spirit,  dwell  with  me  .  .  .164 


CONTENTS.  xix 

PAGE 

WILLIAM    DRUMMOND — 

XCII.     The  Nativity  of  our  Lord     ....       166 

ISAAC    WILLIAMS — 

XCIII.     St.  Wenceslaus       .  .  :  .  .168 

HENRY    HART    MILMAN — 

XCIV.     The  Love  of  God    .  .  .  .  .170 

JOSEPH    ADDISON — 

XCV.     An  Ode  on  the  Creation        .  .  .  .172 

SABINE    BARING-GOULD — 

XCVL     Cedron's  Well         .  .  .  .  173 

HENRY    ALFORD 

XCVII.     "  I  have  found  Peace "      .  .  .  175 

EDWARD    DOWDEN 

XCVIII.     Emmausward       .  .  .  .  .176 

ARTHUR   HUGH    CLOUGH — 

XCIX.     "  O  thou  whose  Image  in  the  Shrine  "  .177 

HORATIUS    BONAR — 

C.     "  Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm "         .  179 

ANDREW    MARYELL 

CI.     The  Coronet     .  .  .  .  .  .181 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING — 

CII.     Chorus  of  Eden.  Spirits  .  .  .  .182 

HENRY   VAUGHAN — 
L,  CIII.    The  Night     .  .  -  .  .  .184 


xx  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GEORGE   WITHER — 

CIV.     A  Rocking  Hymn       .  .  .  .  .187 

SIR    JOHN    BEAUMONT 

CV.     The  Epiphany.  .  .  .  .  .190 

JOHN    KEBLE — 

CVI.     St.  Matthew   ......       192 

HARTLEY    COLERIDGE — 

CVII.     Elijah 194 

JAMES    MONTGOMERY — 

CVIII.     For  ever  with  the  Lord       .  .  .  -195 

FRANCIS    QUARLES — 

CIX.     "  Whom  have  I  in  Heaven  but  Thee  ? "  .       197 

RICHARD    MANX — 

CX.     Te  Deum  Laudamus    .  .  .  .  -199 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

CXI.     On  Another's  Sorrow  ....       200 

JOHN    MASON    NEALE — 

CXII.    The  Guide,  from  "  St.  Stephen  the  Sabaite  "         .      202 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY — 

CXIII.     A  Farewell 204 

HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW — 

CXIV.     Vesper  Song  .  .  .  .  .205 


ROBERT    STEPHEN    HAWKER — 
CXV.     "  The  Night  Cometh  " 


206 


CONTENTS.  xxi 

I'AGE 

LEWIS    MORRIS — 

CXVI.     A  Hymn  in  Time  of  Idols  .  .  .  .207 

SIR    HENRY   WOTTON — 

CXVII.     The  Character  of  a  Happy  Life    .  .  .210 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER — 

CXVIII.     The  Two  Angels  .  .  .  .212 

JOHN   AUSTIN — 

CXIX.     A  Hymn 214 

WILLIAM    DRUMMOND — 

CXX.     From  "  Flowers  of  Sion  "    .  .  .  .216 

JOHN    KEBLE — 

CXXI.     Forest  Leaves  in  Autumn  .  .  .  .218 

GEORGE    HERBERT — 

CXXII.     Aaron         ......       221 

LORD    BYRON — 

CXXIII.     " A  Spirit  passed  before  me"     .  .  .223 

ISAAC  WILLIAMS — 

CXXIV.     Basil 224 

SAMUEL   WADDINGTON — 

CXXV.     S.  Francis,  of  Assisi  ....       225 

REGINALD    HEBER — 

CXXVI.     Hymn 226 

RICHARD    WILTON — 

CXXVII.    The  Shepherd's  Reed    .  .  .  .228 


xxii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HARTLEY    COLERIDGE 

CXXVIII.     Sunday  .....       230 

ADELAIDE    ANNE    PROCTER — 

CXXIX.     IVr  Pacem  ad  Lucem      ....      232 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING — 

CXXX.     The  Two  Sayings  .  .  .  .233 

RICHARD    CHENEVIX   TRENCH — 

CXXXI.     The  Trodigal        .  .  .  .  .234 

ALEXANDER    POPE — 

CXXXII.     The  Universal  Prayer     .  .  .  .235 

HENRY   VAUGHAN — 

CXXXIII.     The  Retreat      .  .  .  .  .238 

CHARLES    KINGSLEY — 

CXXXIV.     Hymn    ......       240 

REGINALD    HEBER — 

CXXXV.     "  By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill  "  .  .  .      242 

W.    R.    NEALE 

CXXXVI.     The  Widow  of  Nain      .  .  .  .244 

FREDERICK    \V.    H.    MYERS — 

CXXXVII.     From  "  Saint  Paul  "    .  .  .  .247 

RICHARD    BAXTER — 

CXXXVIIL     The  Exit 253 

THOMAS    TORE    LYNCH  — 

CXXXIX.     The  Heart  of  Christ      .  .  .  .260 


CONTENTS.  xxiii 

PAGE 

THOMAS    MOORE — 

CXL.     Angel  of  Charity       .  .  .  .  .262 

HORATIUS    BONAR — 

CXLI.     Marah  and  Elim      .  .  .  .  .263 

FREDERICK    WILLIAM    FABER 

CXLII.     The  Thought  of  God         .  .  .  .265 

FRANCIS    QUARLES — 

CXLIII.     "  My  Beloved  is  Mine  "  .  .  .268 

ROBERT    HERRICK — 

CXLIV.     To  keep  a  True  Lent        .  .  .  .270 

EEIGH    HUNT — 

CXLV.     Abou  Ben  Adhem  and  the  Angel .  .  .271 

SABINE    BARING-GOULD — 

CXLVI.     The  Sultan's  Daughter     .  .  .  .272 

RICHARD    CHENEVIX    TRENCH — 

CXLVII.     Retribution  .  .  .  .  -275 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT — 

CXLVIII.     Hymn  of  the  Waldenses  .  .  .276 

ROBERT  OF    FRANCE — 

CXLIX.     "  Come,  Holy  One,  in  Love "     .  .  .       277 

RICHARD    WILTON — 

CL.     At  His  Feet     ......       279- 

HARTLEY    COLERIDGE — 

CLI.     A  Grace  .  .  .  .  .  .281 


xxiv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

LORD    BYRON — 

CLII.     The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib       .  .  .       282 

HENRY    HART    MILMAN — 

CLIII.     "  When  our  heads  are  bowed  with  woe  "  .  .       284 

JOHN    KEBLE — 

CLIV.     The  Visitation  and  Communion  of  the  Sick  .       286 

GEORGE   MORINE — 

CLV.     Dirge  (In  mem.  C.  D.  F.)     .  .  .  .       289 

SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE — 

CLVI.     Hymn  before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni     .       291 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER — 

CLVIL     The  River  Path     .  .  .  .  .295 

THOMAS    DEKKER — 

CLVIII.     A  Song  of  Labour  .  .  .  .297 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT — 

CLIX.     Hymn  to  the  Virgin  .  .  .  .298 

FREDERICK    WILLIAM    FARRAR — 

CLX.     In  the  Field  with  their  Flocks  Abiding        .  .       299 

CHRISTINA    ROSSETTI — 

CLXI.     Advent         ......       301 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL — 

CLXII.     The  Nativity  .  .  .  .  •       3°4 

THOMAS    CARLYLE — 

CLXIII.     To-day 306 


CONTENTS.  xxv 

PAGE 

JOHN    WESLEY — 

CLXIV.     The  Presence  of  God        .  .  .  .307 

GEORGE  HERBERT — 

CLXV.     Easter  Day  .  .  .  .  .309 

GEORGE    SANDYS — 

CLXVL     From  the  "  Paraphrase  upon  Luke  i."     .  .       310 

JOSEPH   ADDISON — 

CLXVII.     How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord       .  .       312 

JAMES    MONTGOMERY — 

CLXVIII.     "A  Poor  Wayfaring  Man  of  Grief"      .  .       314 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT — 

CLXIX.     "  Dies  iras,  dies  ilia "        .  .  .  -317 

ISAAC    WATTS — 

CLXX.     The  Character  of  Christ     .  .  .  .318 

WILLIAM    COWPER — 

CLXXI.     Retirement  .  .  .  .  .322 

JOHN    MILTON — 

CLXXII.     Morning  Hymn  .  .  .  .  .324 

ELIZABETH    BARRETT    BROWNING — 

CLXXIII.     "  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep  "         .  .      326 

Notes       ........      329 

List  of  Authors  ......      339 

Index  of  First  Lines  .....      342 


Oft  have  I  seen  at  some  cathedral  door 

A  labourer,  pausing  in  the  dust  and  heat, 

Lay  down  his  burden,  and  with  reverent  feet 

Enter,  and  cross  himself  and  on  the  floor 
Kneel  to  repeat  his  paternoster  o'er; 

Far  off  the  noises  of  the  world  retreat ; 

The  loud  vociferations  of  the  street 

Become  an  undistinguiskabU  roar. 
So,  as  I  e?iter  herefrom  day  to  day, 

And  leave  my  burden  at  this  minster  gate, 

Kneeling  i?i  prayer,  and  not  ashamed  to  pray, 
T/u3  htmult  of  the  time  disconsolate 

To  inarticulate  imirmurs  dies  away, 

While  the  eternal  ages  watch  and  wait. 

Henry  Wadsivorth  Longfellow. 


SACRED    SONG. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


HEAR  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BARD.; 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  bard, 
Who  present,  past,  and  future  sees  ; 

Whose  ears  have  heard 

The  Holy  Word 
That  walked  among  the  ancient  trees, 

Calling  the  lapsed  soul, 
And  weeping  in  the  evening  dew — 

That  might  control 

The  starry  pole, 
And  fallen,  fallen  light  renew  ! 

O  Earth,  O  Earth,  return  ! 
Arise  from  out  the  dewy  grass; 

Night  is  worn ; 

And  the  morn 
Rises  from  the  slumbrous  mass. 

Turn  away  no  more  : 
Why  wilt  thou  turn  away  ? 

The  starry  floor, 

The  watery  shore, 
Are  given  thee  till  the  break  of  day. 


HENRY  ALFORD 


II. 


NOT   WAR,    NOR   HURRYING    TROOPS    FROM 
PLAIN  TO  PLAIN. 

Not  war,  nor  hurrying  troops  from  plain  to  plain, 
Nor  deed  of  high  resolve,  nor  stern  command, 
Sing  I ;  the  brow  that  carries  trace  of  pain 
Long  and  enough  the  sons  of  song  have  scanned  : 
Nor  lady's  love  in  honeysuckle  bower, 
With  helmet  hanging  by,  in  stolen  ease : 
Poets  enough  I  deemed  of  heavenly  power 
Ere  now  had  lavished  upon  themes  like  these. 
My  harp  and  I  have  sought  a  holier  meed ; 
The  fragments  of  God's  image  to  restore, 
The  earnest  longings  of  the  soul  to  feed, 
And  balm  into  the  spirit's  wounds  to  pour. 
One  gentle  voice  hath  bid  our  task  God-speed, 
And  now  we  search  the  world  to  hear  of  more. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 


III. 

ODE  TO  DUTY. 

4 'Jam  non  consilio  bonus,  sed  more  eo  perductus,  ut  non  tantum  recte 
facere  possim,  sed  nisi  recte  facere  non  possim.;' 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  1 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 
Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
"When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free  ; 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ;  wrho,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not ; 
May  joy  be  theirs  while  life  shall  last ! 
And  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to  stand  fast  ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

And  blest  are  they  svho  in  the  main 
This  faith,  even  now,  do  entertain  : 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  j 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried ; 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 
Full  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 
The  task  imposed,  from  day  to  day  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought, 
Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 
I  long  for  a  repose  which  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face ; 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  \ 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong, 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  thee,   are  fresh 
and  strong. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power, 
I  call  thee :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 
Oh  !  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 
And,  in  the  light  of  truth,  thy  bondman  let  me  live  ! 


REGINALD  IIEBER. 


IV. 

"FORTH  FROM  THE  DARK  AND  STORMY  SKY." 

Forth  from  the  dark  and  stormy  sky, 
Lord,  to  thine  altar's  shade  we  fly  ; 
Forth  from  the  world,  its  hope  and  fear, 
Saviour,  we  seek  thy  shelter  here ; 
Weary  and  weak  thy  grace  we  pray : 
Turn  not,  O  Lord,  thy  guests  away  ! 

Long  have  we  roamed  in  want  and  pain, 
Long  have  we  sought  thy  rest  in  vain  ; 
Wildered  in  doubt,  in  darkness  lost, 
Long  have  our  souls  been  tempest-tossed  : 
Low  at  thy  feet  our  sins  wre  lay ; 
Turn  not,  O  Lord,  thy  guests  away  ! 


JEREMY  TA  YLOR. 


V. 

THE  PRAYER. 

My  soul  doth  pant  towards  thee, 
My  God,  source  of  eternal  life ; 
Flesh  fights  with  me  : 
Oh,  end  the  strife, 
And  part  us  that  in  peace  I  may 
Unclay 
My  wearied  spirit,  and  take 
My  flight  to  thy  eternal  spring, 
Where,  for  his  sake 
Who  is  my  king, 
I  may  wash  all  my  tears  away, 
That  day. 

Thou  conqueror  of  death, 
Glorious  triumpher  o'er  the  grave, 
Whose  holy  breath 
Was  spent  to  save 
Lost  mankind,  make  me  to  be  styled 
Thy  child, 
And  take  me  when  I  die, 
And  go  unto  my  dust ;  my  soul 
Above  the  sky 
With  saints  enroll, 
That  in  thine  arms  for  ever  I 
May  lie. 


SIR   WALTER  RALEIGH. 


VI. 
HYMN. 

Rise,  O  my  soul,  with  thy  desires  to  heaven  ; 

And  with  divinest  contemplation  use 
Thy  time,  where  time's  eternity  is  given, 

And  let  vain  thoughts  no  more  thy  thoughts  abuse, 
But  down  in  darkness  let  them  lie  ; 
So  live  thy  better,  let  thy  worse  thoughts  die ! 

And  thou,  my  soul,  inspired  with  holy  flame, 
View  and  review,  with  most  regardful  eye, 
That  holy  cross,  whence  thy  salvation  came, 
On  which  thy  Saviour  and  thy  sin  did  die ! 
For  in  that  sacred  object  is  much  pleasure, 
And  in  that  Saviour  is  my  life,  my  treasure. 

To  thee,  O  Jesu  !  I  direct  mine  eyes  ; 

To  thee  my  hands,  to  thee  my  humble  knees, 
To  thee  my  heart  shall  offer  sacrifice ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts,  who  my  thoughts  only  sees  : 
To  thee  myself,— myself  and  all  I  give  ; 
To  thee  I  die  ;  to  thee  I  only  live  ! 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER. 


VII. 

THE  ETERNITY  OF  GOD, 

O  Lord  !  my  heart  is  sick. 
Sick  of  this  everlasting  change  ; 
And  life  runs  tediously  quick 
Through  its  unresting  race  and  varied  range  : 
Change  finds  no  likeness  to  itself  in  thee, 
And  wakes  no  echo  in  thy  mute  eternity. 

Dear  Lord  !  my  heart  is  sick 
Of  this  perpetual  lapsing  time, 

So  slow  in  grief,  in  joy  so  quick, 
Yet  ever  casting  shadows  so  sublime  : 
Time  of  all  creatures  is  least  like  to  thee, 
And  yet  it  is  our  share  of  thine  eternity. 

Oh,  change  and  time  are  storms 
For  lives  so  thin  and  frail  as  ours ; 

For  change  the  work  of  grace  deforms 
With  love  that  soils,  and  help  that  overpowers ; 
And  time  is  strong,  and,  like  some  chafing  sea, 
It  seems  to  fret  the  shores  of  thine  eternity. 

Weak,  weak,  for  ever  weak  ! 
We  cannot  hold  what  we  possess; 

Youth  cannot  find,  age  will  not  seek — 
Oh,  weakness  is  the  heart's  worst  weariness : 


io  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER. 

But  weakest  hearts  can  lift  their  thoughts  to  thee; 
It  makes  us  strong  to  think  of  thine  eternity. 


Thou  hadst  no  youth,  great  God ! 
An  Unbeginning  End  thou  art ; 

Thy  glory  in  itself  abode, 
And  still  abides  in  its  own  tranquil  heart : 
No  age  can  heap  its  outward  years  on  thee  ; 
Dear  God  !  Thou  art  thyself  thine  own  eternity. 


Without  an  end  or  bound 
Thy  life  lies  all  outspread  in  light ; 
Our  lives  feel  thy  life  all  around, 
Making  our  weakness  strong,  our  darkness  bright ; 
Yet  it  is  neither  wilderness  nor  sea, 
But  the  calm  gladness  of  a  full  eternity. 


Oh,  thou  art  very  great 
To  set  thyself  so  far  above  ! 

But  we  partake  of  thine  estate, 
Established  in  thy  strength  and  in  thy  love  : 
That  love  hath  made  eternal  room  for  me 
In  the  sweet  vastness  of  its  own  eternity. 


Oh,  thou  art  very  meek 
To  overshade  thy  creatures  thus  ! 

Thy  grandeur  is  the  shade  we  seek ; 
To  be  eternal  is  thy  use  to  us  : 
Ah,  blessed  God  !  what  joy  it  is  to  me 
To  lose  all  thought  of  self  in  thine  eternity. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER.  n 

Self-wearied,  Lord  !  I  come  ; 
For  I  have  lived  my  life  too  fast ; 

Now  that  years  bring  me  nearer  home, 
Grace  must  be  slowly  used  to  make  it  last ; 
When  my  heart  beats  too  quick  I  think  of  thee, 
And  of  the  leisure  of  thy  long  eternity. 

Farewell,  vain  joys  of  earth  ! 
Farewell,  all  love  that  is  not  His  ! 

Dear  God  !  be  thou  my  only  mirth, 
Thy  majesty  my  single  timid  bliss  ! 
Oh,  in  the  bosom  of  eternity 
Thou  dost  not  weary  of  thyself,  nor  we  of  thee  ! 


i  2  CARDINAL  N£  WMAtf. 


VIII. 

FROM    "THE   DREAM    OF   GER0XTIU3." 

(choir  of  angelicals.) 

Praise  to  the  Holiest  in  the  height, 
And  in  the  depth  be  praise  ; — 

In  all  his  words  most  wonderful ; 
Most  sure  in  all  his  ways ! 

To  us,  his  elder  race,  he  gave 

To  battle  and  to  win, 
Without  the  chastisement  of  pain, 

Without  the  soil  of  sin. 

The  younger  son  he  willed  to  be 

A  marvel  in  his  birth  : 
Spirit  and  flesh  his  parents  were  \ 

His  home  was  heaven  and  earth. 

The  Eternal  blessed  his  child,  and  armed, 

And  sent  him  hence  afar, 
To  serve  as  champion  in  the  field 

Of  elemental  war. 

To  be  his  Viceroy  in  the  world 

Of  matter  and  of  sense  ; 
Upon  the  frontier,  towards  the  foe, 

A  resolute  defence. 


ISAAC   WATTS,  13 


IX. 

PSALM   XC. 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come ; 
Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast, 
And  our  eternal  home  : 

Under  the  shadow  of  thy  throne 
Thy  saints  have  dwelt  secure  \ 
Sufficient  is  thine  arm  alone, 
And  our  defence  is  sure. 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood, 
Or  earth  received  her  frame  ; 
From  everlasting  thou  art  God, 
To  endless  years  the  same. 

Thy  word  commands  our  flesh  to  dust, 
"  Return,  ye  sons  of  men  :  " 
All  nations  rose  from  earth  at  first, 
And  turn  to  earth  again. 

A  thousand  ages  in  thy  sight, 

Are  like  an  evening  gone ; 

Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 

Before  the  rising  sun. 


14  ISAAC  WATTS. 

The  busy  tribes  of  flesh  and  blood, 
With  all  their  lives  and  cares, 
Are  carried  downwards  by  thy  flood, 
And  lost  in  following  years. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 
Bears  all  its  sons  away ; 
They  fly,  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day. 

Like  flowery  fields  the  nations  stand, 
Pleased  with  the  morning  light : 
The  flowers  beneath  the  mower's  hand, 
Lie  withering  ere  'tis  night. 

Our  God,  our  help  in  ages  past, 
Our  hope  for  years  to  come, 
Be  thou  our  guard  while  troubles  last, 
And  our  eternal  home. 


GEORGE  HERBERT.  15 


X. 

"SWEET  DAY,  SO  COOL,  SO  CALM,  SO  BRIGHT, 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave  ; 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  you  have  your  closes ; 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


X6  EDMUND  SPENSER. 


XL 
EASTER  MORNING. 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  life  !  that,  on  this  clay, 
Didst  make  thy  triumph  over  death  and  sin, 
And  having  harrowed  hell,  didst  bring  away 
Captivity  thence  captive,  us  to  win  : 

This  joyous  day,  dear  Lord,  with  joy  begin  ; 

And  grant  that  we,  for  whom  thou  diddest  die, 
Being  with  thy  dear  blood  clean  washed  from  sin, 
May  live  for  ever  in  felicity  ! 

And  that  thy  love  we  weighing  worthily, 

May  likewise  love  thee  for  the  same  again  ; 
And  for  thy  sake,  that  all  like  dear  didst  buy, 

With  love  may  one  another  entertain  ! 

So  let  us  love,  dear  love,  like  as  we  ought  : 
Love  is  the  lesson  which  the  Lord  us  taught. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BR  YANT.  1 7 


XII. 
MARY  MAGDALEN. 

(From  the  Spanish  of  Leonardo  de  Argensola). 

Blessed,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken  hearted  ! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn, 
In  wonder  and  in  scorn  ! 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed ; 

Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to  move 
The  Lord  to  pity  and  love. 

The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 
On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 
Thou  didst  kneel  down  to  Him  who  came  from  heaven, 
Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise, 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 
The  ragged  brier  should  change  ;  the  bitter  fir 
Distil  Arabian  myrrh  ! 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 

The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the  swain 
Bear  home  the  abundant  grain  ; 
3 


18  WILLIAM  CVLLEN  BR  YANT. 

Dut  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  mountains 
Thick  to  their  tops  with  roses ;  come  and  see 
Leaves  on  the  dry  dead  tree  ; 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 
Grows  fruitful,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise, 
For  ever,  towards  the  skies. 


JOHN  DONNE.  19 


XIII. 
A  HYMN  TO  GOD  THE  FATHER. 


Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  when  I  begun, 

Which  was  my  sin,  though  it  was  done  before  ? 
Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin,  through  which  I  run, 
And  do  run  still,  though  still  I  do  deplore  ? — 
When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done  ; 
For  I  have  more. 


Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  have  won 

Others  to  sin,  and  made  my  sins  their  door  ? 
Wilt  thou  forgive  that  sin  which  I  did  shun 
A  year  or  two,  but  wallowed  in  a  score  ? — 
When  thou  hast  done,  thou  hast  not  done : 
For  I  have  more. 


I  have  a  sin  of  fear,  that  when  I've  spun 

My  last  thread,  I  shall  perish  on  the  shore  ; 
But  swear  by  thyself,  that  at  my  death  thy  Son 
Shall  shine,  as  he  shines  now  and  heretofore ; 
And  having  done  that,  thou  hast  done  : 
I  fear  no  more. 


20  ROBERT  HERRICK. 


XIV. 


ETERNITY. 


0  years  and  age,  farewell  ! 
Behold  I  go 
Where  I  do  know 

Infinity  to  dwell. 


And  these  mine  eyes  shall  see 
All  times,  how  they 
Are  lost  i'  th'  sea 

Of  vast  eternity. 


AVhere  never  moon  shall  sway 
The  stars;  but  she 
And  night  shall  be 

Drowned  in  one  endless  day 


CHARLES  K1NGSLE  Y.  2 1 


XV. 
THE  DAY  OF  THE  LORD. 

The  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at  hand  : 

Its  storms  roll  up  the  sky  : 
The  nations  sleep  starving  on  heaps  of  gold  ; 

All  dreamers  toss  and  sigh  ; 
The  night  is  darkest  before  the  morn ; 
When  the  pain  is  sorest  the  child  is  bom, 

And  the  day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  angels  of  God — 
Freedom,  and  Mercy,  and  Truth  ; 

Come  !  for  the  earth  is  grown  coward  and  old, 
Come  down,  and  renew  us  her  youth, 

"Wisdom,  Self-sacrifice,  Daring,  and  Love, 

Haste  to  the  battle-field,  stoop  from  above, 
To  the  day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 

Gather  you,  gather  you,  hounds  of  hell — 
Famine,  and  Plague,  and  War ; 

Idleness,  Bigotry,  Cant,  and  Misrule, 
Gather,  and  fall  in  the  snare  ! 

Hireling  and  Mammonite,  Bigot  and  Knave, 

Crawl  to  the  battle-field,  sneak  to  your  grave, 
In  the  day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 


22 


CHARLES  KING  SLEW 

Who  would  sit  down  and  sigh  for  a  lost  age  of  gold, 
While  the  Lord  of  all  ages  is  here? 

True  hearts  will  leap  up  at  the  trumpet  of  God, 
And  those  who  can  suffer,  can  dare. 

Each  old  age  of  gold  was  an  iron  age  too, 

And  the  meekest  of  saints  may  find  stern  work  to  do 
In  the  day  of  the  Lord  at  hand. 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRRXCI1. 


XVI. 

THE  HOLY  EUCHARIST. 

(From  the  Spanish  pf  Calderon.) 

Honey  in  the  lion's  mouth, 
Emblem  mystical,  divine, 
How  the  sweet  and  strong  combine ; 
Cloven  rock  from  Israel's  drouth ; 
Treasure-house  of  golden  grain, 
By  our  Joseph  laid  in  store, 
In  his  brethren's  famine  sore, 
Freely  to  dispense  again ; 
Dew  on  Gideon's  snowy  fleece  ; 
Well  from  bitter  changed  to  sweet  ; 
Shew-bread  laid  in  order  meet, 
Bread  whose  cost  doth  not  increase, 
Though  no  rain  in  April  fall  • 
Horeb's  manna,  freely  given, 
Showered  in  white  dew  from  heaven, 
Marvellous,  angelical ; 
Weightiest  bunch  of  Canaan's  vine  ; 
Cake  to  strengthen  and  sustain 
Through  long  days  of  desert  pain  ; 
Salem's  monarch's  bread  and  wine — 
Thou  the  antidote  shalt  be 
Of  my  sickness  and  my  sin. 
Consolation,  medicine, 
Life  and  Sacrament  to  me. 


24  HENRY  FRANCIS  L  YTE. 


XVII. 

FAR  FROM  MY  HEAVENLY  HOME." 

Far  from  my  heavenly  home, 
Far  from  my  Father's  breast, 
Fainting  I  cry,  "  Blest  Spirit !  come 
And  speed  me  to  my  rest !  " 

Upon  the  willows  long 
My  harp  has  silent  hung  : 
How  should  I  sing  a  cheerful  song 
Till  thou  inspire  my  tongue  ? 

My  spirit  homeward  turns, 
And  fain  would  thither  flee  \ 
My  heart,  O  Zion,  droops  and  yearns, 
When  I  remember  thee. 

To  thee,  to  thee  1  press, 
A  dark  and  toilsome  road  ; 
When  shall  I  pass  the  wilderness, 
And  reach  the  saints'  abode  ? 

God  of  my  life,  be  near  ! 
On  thee  my  hopes  I  cast ; 
O  guide  me  through  the  desert  here, 
And  bring  me  home  at  last. 


ARTHUR  PEXRI1YN  STANLEY. 


XVIII. 

"  0  MASTER,  IT  IS  GOOD  TO  BE." 

O  Master,  it  is  good  to  be 
High  on  the  mountain  here  with  thee  ; 
Where  stand  revealed  to  mortal  gaze, 
Those  glorious  saints  of  other  days  ; 
Who  once  received  on  Horeb's  height, 
The  eternal  laws  of  truth  and  right ; 
Or  caught  the  still  small  whisper,  higher 
Than  storm,  than  earthquake,  or  than  fire. 

O  Master,  it  is  good  to  be 

With  thee,  and  with  thy  faithful  three  ; 

Here  where  the  apostle's  heart  of  rock, 

Is  nerved  against  temptation's  shock ; 

Here,  where  the  son  of  thunder  learns 

The  thought  that  breathes,  and  word  that  burns ; 

Here,  where  on  eagles'  wings  we  move, 

With  Him  whose  last  best  creed  is  love. 

O  Master,  it  is  good  to  be, 
Entranced,  enwrapt,  alone  with  thee ; 
And  watch  thy  glistening  raiment  glow, 
Whiter  than  Hermon's  whitest  snow \ 
The  human  lineaments  that  shine, 
Irradiant  with  a  light  divine  ; 
Till  we  too  change  from  grace  to  grace 
Gazing  on  that  transfigured  face. 


I  of 


FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE.  27 


XIX. 
THE  DAYSTAR. 

atj'iov  atpotyoiTCiv 
'Affrspa  ixii}'ajj.ev  'AeXiov  \svK07CTtpvya  irpodpopc 

Star  of  morn  and  even, 
Sun  of  Heaven's  heaven, 

Saviour  high  and  dear, 

Toward  us  turn  thine  ear ; 

Through  whate'er  may  come. 

Thou  canst  lead  us  home. 

Though  the  gloom  be  grievous, 
Those  we  leant  on  leave  us, 
Though  the  coward  heart 
Quit  its  proper  part, 
Though  the  tempter  come, 
Thou  wilt  lead  us  home. 

Saviour  pure  and  holy, 

Lover  of  the  lowly, 

Sign  us  with  thy  sign, 
Take  our  hands  in  thine, 
Take  our  hands  and  come, 
Lead  thy  children  home. 


23  FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 

Star  of  morn  and  even, 
Shine  on  us  from  Heaven ; 

From  thy  glory-throne 

Hear  thy  very  own  ! 

Lord  and  Saviour,  come, 

Lead  us  to  our  home  ! 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  29 


XX. 


WEARY  IN  WELL-DOING. 


I  would  have  gone ;  God  bade  me  stay  : 
I  would  have  worked  ;  God  bade  me  rest. 

He  broke  my  will  from  day  to  day, 
He  read  my  yearnings  unexpressed 
And  said  them  nay. 


Now  I  would  stay  ;  God  bids  me  go  : 
Now  I  would  rest ;  God  bids  me  work. 

He  breaks  my  heart,  tossed  to  and  fro, 
My  soul  is  wrung  with  doubts  that  lurk 
And  vex  it  so. 


I  go,  Lord,  where  thou  sendest  me ; 

Day  after  day  I  plod  and  moil : 
But,  Christ  my  God,  when  will  it  be 

That  I  may  let  alone  my  toil 
And  rest  with  thee. 


jo 


>m  as  our 


old 

In  v 

kc  that  work  \ 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGIL 

Nor  times  shall  lack,  when  while  the  work  it  plies, 

Unsummoned  powers  the  blinding  film  shall  part, 
And  scarce  by  happy  tears  made  dim,  the  eyes 
In  recognition  start. 

But,  as  thou  wiliest,  give  or  e'en  forbear 

The  beatific  supersensual  sight, 
So  with  thy  blessing  blest,  that  humble  prayer 
Approach  thee  morn  and  night. 


32  JOSEPH  ADDIS  OX. 

XXII. 

A  PASTORAL  ODE. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare, 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care ; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  ; 
My  noon-day  walks  he  shall  attend, 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint, 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant ; 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads, 
My  weary,  wandering  steps  he  leads  ; 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow, 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread, 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread, 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill, 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid, 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way, 
Through  devious  lonely  wilds  I  stray, 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  pains  beguile  ; 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile. 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crowned, 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 


GEORGE  HERBERT.  33 


XXIII. 
THE   QUIP. 

The  merry  world  did  on  a  day 

With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 

To  meet  together  where  I  lay, 
And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 

First  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose  ; 

Which  when  I  plucked  not — "Sir,"  said  she, 
"Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those  ?  " 

But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  Money  came,  and,  chinking  still — — 
"  WThat  tune  is  this,  poor  man?"  said  he  : 

11 1  heard  in  music  you  had  skill." 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me, 

Then  came  brave  Glory  puffing  by 
In  silks  that  whistled — who  but  he  ? 

He  scarce  allowed  me  half  an  eye ; 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  quick  Wit-and-Conversation, 
And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be, 

And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration  : 
But  thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me. 
4 


GEORGE  HERBERT. 

Yet  when  the  hour  of  thy  design 

To  answer  these  fine  things  shall  come, 

Speak  not  at  large— say  I  am  thine  ; 
And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 


BEN  fONSON.  35 


XXIV. 
HYMN   TO   GOD   THE   FATHER. 

Hear  me,  O  God  ! 

A  broken  heart 

Is  my  best  part  : 
Use  still  thy  rod, 

That  I  may  prove 

Therein  thy  love. 

If  thou  hadst  not 

Been  stern  to  mc, 

But  left  me  free, 
I  had  forgot 

Mysdf  and  thee. 

For  sin's  so  sweet, 

As  minds  ill  bent 

Rarely  repent, 
Until  they  meet 

Their  punishment. 

Who  more  can  crave 
Than  thou  hast  done  ? 
Thou  gavest  a  Son 

To  free  a  slave ; 

First  made  of  nought, 
With  all  since  bought. 


36  BEN JONSOAK 

Sin,  death,  and  hell 
His  glorious  name 
Quite  overcame ; 

Yet  I  rebel, 

And  slight  the  same. 

But  I'll  come  in 
Before  my  loss 
Me  further  toss, 

As  sure  to  win 
Under  his  Cross. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FARRAR.  37 


XXV. 
HYMN. 

God  and  Father,  great  and  holy, 

Fearing  nought  we  come  to  thee  ; 
Fearing  nought,  though  weak  and  lowly, 

For  thy  love  has  made  us  free  ; 
By  the  blue  sky  bending  o'er  us, 

By  the  green  earth's  flowery  zone, 
Teach  us,  Lord,  the  angel-chorus, 

Thou  art  Love  and  Love  alone. 

Father,  Lord  of  bright  creation, 

Holy,  blest,  eternal  Son, 
Spirit,  source  of  inspiration, 

Glorious  Godhead,  three  in  one, 
With  the  notes  that,  high-ascending, 

Breathe  around  the  sapphire  throne, 
May  thy  sons  the  song  be  blending, 

Thou  art  Love  and  Love  alone. 

Though  the  world  in  flames  should  perish 

Suns  and  stars  in  ruin  fall, 
Love  of  thee  our  heart  should  cherish ; 

Thou  to  us  be  all  in  all : 
And  though  heavens  thy  name  are  praising, 

Seraphs  hymn  no  sweeter  tone 
Than  the  strain  our  hearts  are  raising, 

Thou  art  Love  and  Love  alone. 


38  JOHN  KEBLE. 

XXVI. 

MOUNTAIN   SCENERY. 

Where  is  thy  favoured  haunt,  eternal  Voice, 

The  region  of  thy  choice, 
Where,  undisturbed  by  sin  and  earth,  the  soul 

Owns  thine  entire  control  ?  — 
Tis  on  the  mountain's  summit  dark  and  high, 

When  storms  are  hurrying  by  : 
Tis  'mid  the  strong  foundations  of  the  earth, 

Where  torrents  have  their  birth. 

No  sounds  of  worldly  toil  ascending  there, 

Mar  the  full  burst  of  prayer ; 
Lone  Nature  feels  that  she  may  freely  breathe, 

And  round  us  and  beneath 
Are  heard  her  sacred  tones  ;  the  fitful  sweep 

Of  winds  across  the  steep, 
Through  withered  bents — romantic  note  and  clear, 

Meet  for  a  hermit's  ear ; 

The  wheeling  kite's  wild  solitary  cry, 
And,  scarcely  heard  so  high, 
The  dashing  waters  when  the  air  is  still, 

From  many  a  torrent  rill 
That  winds  unseen  beneath  the  shaggy  fell, 

Tracked  by  the  blue  mist  well  : 
Such  sounds  as  make  deep  silence  in  the  heart 
For  Thought  to  do  her  part. 


JOHN KEBLE.  ; 

Tis  then  we  hear  the  voice  of  God  within, 
Heading  with  care  and  sin  : 

11  Child  of  my  love  !  how  have  I  wearied  thee? 

Why  wilt  thou  err  from  me? 
Have  I  not  brought  thee  from  the  house  of  slaves, 

Parted  the  drowning  waves, 
And  set  my  saints  before  thee  in  the  way, 

I. est  thou  shouldst  faint  or  stray? 


11  What !  was  the  promise  made  to  thee  alone  ? 

Art  thou  the  excepted  one  ? 
An  heir  of  glory  without  grief  or  pain  ? 

O  vision  false  and  vain ! 
There  lies  thy  cross  ;  beneath  it  meekly  bow, 

It  fits  thy  stature  now  : 
Who  scornful  pass  it  with  averted  eye, 

Twill  crush  them  by  and  by. 


"  Raise  thy  repining  eyes,  and  take  true  measure 

Of  thine  eternal  treasure ; 
The  Father  of  thy  Lord  can  grudge  thee  nought, 

The  world  for  thee  was  bought, 
And  as  this  landscape  broad — earth,  sea,  and  sky, 

All  centres  in  thine  eye ; 
So  all  God  does,  if  rightly  understood, 

Shall  work  thy  final  good." 


40  JOHN  MILTON. 

XXVII. 

AT   A   SOLEMN   MUSIC. 

Blest  pair  of  sirens,  pledges  of  heaven's  joy, 

Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  voice  and  verse, 

Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixed  power  employ, 

Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce  \ 

And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 

That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent, 

Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-coloured  throne 

To  him  that  sits  thereon, 

With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee  \ 

Where  the  bright  seraphim  in  burning  row 

Their  loud,  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow  ; 

And  the  cherubic  host,  in  thousand  choirs, 

Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 

With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly  : 

That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice, 

May  lightly  answer  that  melodious  noise  ; 

x\s  once  we  did,  till  disproportioned  sin 

Jarred  against  Nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 

To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  swayed 

In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 

In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 

O  !  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song, 

And  keep  in  tune  with  heaven,  till  God  ere  long 

To  his  celestial  consort  us  unite 

To  live  with  him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light 


MATTHE  W  ARNOLD.  41 


XXVIII. 

MONICA'S   LAST    PRAYER. 

M  Oh,  could  thy  grave  at  home,  at  Carthage,  be  !  " — 
Care  not  for  that,  and  lay  me  where  I  fall ! 
Everywhere  heard  will  be  the  judgment- call. 

But  at  God's  altar,  oh  I  remember  me. 

Thus  Monica,  and  died  in  Italy. 
Yet  fervent  had  her  longing  been,  through  all 
Her  course,  for  home  at  last,  and  burial 
With  her  own  husband,  by  the  Libyan  sea. 

Had  been  !  but  at  the  end,  to  her  pure  soul 
All  tie  with  all  beside  seemed  vain  and  cheap, 
And  union  before  God  the  only  care. 

Creeds  pass,  rites  change,  no  altar  standeth  whole  ! 
Yet  we  her  memory,  as  she  prayed,  will  keep, 
Keep  by  this  :  Life  i?i  God,  and  union  there  ! 


42  HENRY  VAUGIIAN. 


XXIX. 

THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE   INTO  THE  WORLD  OF 
LIGHT." 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  dressed, 

After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 
Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days — 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

0  holy  Hope  !  and  high  Humility  ! 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear  beauteous  death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just, 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust ! 

Gould  men  outlook  that  mark  ! 


HENRY  V AUG  If  AX. 

He  that  bath  found  some  fledged  bir  I 

At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

If  a  star  were  confined  into  a  tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there; 

But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives  room, 
She'll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

O  !  Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 

Created  glories  under  thee, 
Resume  thy  Spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 

Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and  fill 

My  perspective,  still,  as  they  pass; 
Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 

Where  I  shall  need  no  glass. 


4 1  ED  WARD  DO  WDEN, 


XXX. 

COMMUNION. 

Lord,  I  have  knelt  and  tried  to  pray  to-irght, 

But  thy  love  came  upon  me  like  a  sleep, 

And  all  desire  died  out ;  upon  the  deep 

Of  thy  mere  love  I  lay,  each  thought  in  light 

Dissolving  like  the  sunset  clouds,  at  rest 

Each  tremulous  wish,  and  my  strength  weakness,  sweet 

As  a  sick  boy  with  soon  overwearied  feet 

Finds,  yielding  him  unto  his  mother's  breast 

To  weep  for  weakness  there.     I  could  not  pray, 

But  with  closed  eyes  I  felt  thy  bosom's  love 

Beating  toward  mine,  and  then  I  would  not  move 

Till  of  itself  the  joy  should  pass  away  ; 

At  last  my  heart  found  voice — "Take  me,  O  Lord, 

And  do_with  me  according  to  thy  word." 


HARD  CRAS1IA\}\  45 


XXXI. 

CHRIST'S    VICTORY. 

(From  "The  Office  of  the  Holy  Cross.") 

I. 
Now  is  the  noon  of  sorrow's  night 
High  in  his  patience  as  their  spite; 
Lo,  the  faint  Lamb,  with  weary  limb, 
Bears  that  huge  tree  which  must  bear  him 
That  fatal  plant,  so  great  of  fame 
For  fruit  of  sorrow  and  of  shame, 
Shall  swell  with  both  for  him,  and  mix 
All  woes  into  one  crucifix. 

II. 

Christ,  when  he  died, 
Deceived  the  cross, 
And  on  death's  side 
Threw  all  the  loss  ; 
The  captive  world  awoke  and  found 
The  prisoner  loose,  the  jailor  bound. 

in. 

O  dear  and  sweet  dispute 
Twixt  death's  and  love's  far  different  fruit 

Different  as  far 
As  antidotes  and  poisons  are ; 


46  RICHARD  CRASH  A  IV. 

By  that  first  fatal  tree 
Both  life  and  liberty 
Were  sold  and  slain  ; 
By  this  they  both  look  up  and  live  again, 

IV. 

O  strange,  mysterious  strife 
Of  open  death  and  hidden  life  ! 
When  on  the  cross  my  King  did  bleed, 
Life  seemed  to  die,  Death  died  indeed. 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


XXXII. 
THE   DYING   CHRISTIAN   TO    HIS   SOUL 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

Quit,  O  quit  this  mortal  frame  ; 

Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 

O  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying. 
Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life. 

Hark  !  they  whisper ;  angels  say, 

Sister  spirit,  come  away. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite  ? 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes  ;  it  disappears  ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  !  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !     I  mount !  I  fly  ! 
O  grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 


43  RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH 


XXXIII. 
REJOICE   EVERMORE. 

But  how  shall  we  be  glad  ? 
We  that  are  journeying  through  a  vale  of  tears, 
Encompassed  with  a  thousand  woes  and  fears, 

How  should  we  not  be  sad  ? 

Angels,  that  ever  stand 
Within  the  presence-chamber,  and  there  raise 
The  never-interrupted  hymn  of  praise, 

May  welcome  this  command  : 

Or  they  whose  strife  is  o'er, 
Who  all  their  weary  length  of  life  have  trod, 
As  pillars  now  within  the  temple  of  God, 

That  shall  go  out  no  more. 

But  we  who  wander  here, 
We  who  are  exiled  in  this  gloomy  place, 
Still  doomed  to  water  earth's  unthankful  face 

With  many  a  bitter  tear — 

Bid  us  lament  and  mourn, 
Bid  us  that  we  go  mourning  all  the  day, 
And  we  will  find  it  easy  to  obey, 

Of  our  best  things  forlorn  ; 


RICHARD  CHE  CII.  4o 

Lut  nut  that  we  be  glad  ; 

It"  it  be  true  the  mourners  are  the  bk 
Oli  leave  us  in  a  world  of  sin,  unrest, 
And  trouble,  to  be  sad. 

I  spake,  and  thought  to  weep, — 
For  sin  and  sorrow,  suffering  and  crime, 
That  fill  the  world,  all  mine  appointed  time 

A  settled  grief  to  keep. 

When,  lo  !  as  day  from  night, 
As  day  from  out  the  womb  of  night  forlorn, 
So  from  that  sorrow  was  that  gladness  born, 

Even  in  mine  own  despite. 

Yet  was  not  that  by  this 
Excluded ;  at  the  coming  of  that  joy 
Fled  not  that  grief,  nor  did  that  grief  destroy 

The  newly-risen  bliss  : 

But  side  by  side  they  flow, 
Two  fountains  flowing  from  one  smitten  heart 
And  ofttimes  scarcely  to  be  known  apart — 

That  gladness  and  that  woe  ; 

Two  fountains  from  one  source, 
Or  which  from  two  such  neighbouring  sources  run, 
That  aye  for  him  who  shall  unseal  the  one, 

The  other  flows  perforce. 

And  both  are  sweet  and  calm, 
Fair  flowers  upon  the  banks  of  either  blow, 
Both  fertilize  the  soil,  and  where  they  flow 

Shed  round  them  holy  balm. 
5 


So  SIX   WALTER  SCOTT. 


XXXIV. 
IN  EX1TU  ISRAEL. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame  : 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow  ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

Then  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen : 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between ; 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze ; 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  thy  ways, 

And  thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen  ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  O  !  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path, 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  thou,  longsuffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  shining  light. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 
But  thou  hast  said,  The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams  I  will  not  prize  ; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought^ 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrtj 


5  2  R OBERT  IIERRICK. 


XXXV. 

HIS  LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress, 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  I  lie  within  my  bed, 
Sick  in  heart  and  sick  in  head, 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fees, 
And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me, 

When  his  potion  and  his  pillj 
Has,  or  none,  or  little  skill, 
Meet  for  nothing,  but  to  kill, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 

When  the  passing-bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  furies  in  a  shoal 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  God  knows  I'm  tossed  about, 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 
Yet,  before  the  glass  be  out, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  Tempter  me  pursueth 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  Judgment  is  revealed, 
And  that  opened  which  was  sealed, 
When  to  thee  I  have  appealed  : 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


54  FREDERICK  IV.  IT.  MYERS. 


XXXVI. 

FROM  "SAINT  PAUL." 

"  There  is  neither  Jew  nor  Greek,  there  is  neither  bond  nor  free,  there 
is  neither  male  nor  female  ;  for  ye  are  all  one  in  Christ  Jesus." 

I. 

Christ  !  I  am  Christ's  !  and  let  the  name  suffice  you, 

Ay,  for  me  too  he  greatly  hath  sufficed  ; 
Lo  !  with  no  winning  words  I  would  entice  you, 

Paul  has  no  honour  and  no  friend  but  Christ. 

Yes,  without  cheer  of  sister  or  of  daughter, 

Yes,  without  stay  of  father  or  of  son, 
Lone  on  the  land  and  homeless  on  the  water, 

Pass  I  in  patience  till  the  work  be  done. 

Yet  not  in  solitude  if  Christ  anear  me, 

Waketh  him  workers  for  the  great  employ ; 

Oh,  not  in  solitude  if  souls  that  hear  me 

Catch  from  my  joyaunce  the  surprise  of  joy. 

Hearts  I  have  won  of  sister  or  of  brother, 
Quick  on  the  earth  or  hidden  in  the  sod ; 

Lo  !  every  heart  awaiteth  me,  another 
Friend  in  the  blameless  family  of  God. 

What  was  their  sweet  desire  and  subtle  yearning, 
Lovers,  and  ladies  whom  their  song  enrols  ? 

Faint  to  the  flame  which  in  my  breast  is  burning, 
Less  than  the  love  with  which  I  ache  for  souls. 


EDERICK  W.  If.  MYEl 

Oh,  ye  are  kind,  I  shall  abide  and  teach  you, 
Ye  will  not  foil  as  men  have  failed  before, 

me  and  leave,  ashamed  when  I  besee<  h  you 
Ever  less  loving  as  I  love  the  more. 


IT. 


Yet  it  was  well,  and  thou  hast  said  in  season, 

is  the  master  shall  the  servant  be;  " 
Let  me  not  subtly  slide  into  the  treason, 

Seeking  an  honour  which  they  gave  not  thee  \ 

Never  at  even,  pillowed  on  a  pleasure, 
Sleep  with  the  wings  of  aspiration  furled, 

Hide  the  last  mite  of  the  forbidden  treasure, 
Keep  for  my  joys  a  world  within  the  world. 

Nay  !  but  much  rather  let  me  late  returning, 
Bruised  of  my  brethren,  wounded  from  within, 

Stoop  with  sad  countenance  and  blushes  burning, 
Bitter  with  weariness  and  sick  with  sin  : — 

So  to  thy  presence  get  me  and  reveal  it, 
Nothing  ashamed  of  tears  upon  thy  feet, 

Show  the  sore  wound  and  beg  thine  hand  to  heal  i* 
Pour  thee  the  bitter,  pray  thee  for  the  sweet. 

Then  with  a  ripple  and  a  radiance  thro'  me, 
Rise  and  be  manifest,  O  Morning  Star ! 

Flow  on  my  soul,  thou  Spirit,  and  renew  me, 
Fill  with  thyself,  and  let  the  rest  be  far. 


56  FREDERICK  IV.  II.  MYERS. 

Safe  to  the  hidden  house  of  thine  abiding, 

Carry  the  weak  knees  and  the  heart  that  faints ; 

Shield  from  the  scorn  and  cover  from  the  chiding, 
Give  the  world  joy,  but  patience  to  the  saints. 


in. 

Saint,  did  I  say  ?  with  your  remembered  faces, 
Dear  men  and  women,  whom  I  sought  and  slew  ! 

i\h,  when  we  mingle  in  the  heavenly  places,  . 
How  will  I  weep  to  Stephen  and  to  you  ! 

Oh  for  the  strain  that  rang  to  our  reviling 

Still,  when  the  bruised  limbs  sank  upon  the  sod, 

Oh  for  the  eyes  that  looked  their  last  in  smiling, 
Last  on  the  world  here,  but  their  first  on  God  ! 


HENRY  WADSW0RTI1  LONGFELLOW. 


XXXVII. 

"MY  REDEEMER  AXi)  MY  LOR])/' 

My  Redeemer  and  my  Lord, 
I  beseech  thee,  I  entreat  thee, 
Guide  me  in  each  act  and  word, 
That  hereafter  I  may  meet  thee, 
Watching,  waiting,  hoping,  yearning, 
With  my  lamp  well-trimmed  and  burning  ! 

Interceding 

With  those  bleeding 

Wounds  upon  thy  hands  and  side, 

For  all  who  have  lived  and  erred 

Thou  hast  suffered,  thou  hast  died, 

Scourged,  and  mocked,  and  crucified, 

And  in  the  grave  hast  thou  been  buried  ! 

If  my  feeble  prayer  can  reach  thee, 

O  my  Saviour,  I  beseech  thee, 

Even  as  thou  hast  died  for  me, 

More  sincerely 

Let  me  follow  where  thou  leadest ; 

Let  me,  bleeding  as  thou  bleedest, 

Die,  if  dying  I  may  give 

Life  to  one  who  asks  to  live, 

xAnd  more  nearly, 

Dying  thus,  resemble  thee  ! 


5S  THOMAS  TORE  LYNCH. 


XXXVIII. 
:SPIRIT!  WHOSE  VARIOUS  ENERGIES." 

Spirit  !  whose  various  energies 
By  dew  and  flame  denoted  are, 

By  rain  from  the  world-covering  skies, 
By  rushing  and  by  whispering  air  • 

Be  thou  to  us,  O  gentlest  one, 
The  brimful  river  of  sweet  peace, 

Sunshine  of  the  celestial  sun, 
Restoring  air  of  sacred  ease. 

Life  of  our  life,  since  life  of  him 

By  whom  we  live  eternally, 
Our  heart  is  faint,  our  eye  is  dim, 

Till  thou  our  spirit  purify. 

The  purest  airs  are  strongest  too, 
Strong  to  enliven  and  to  heal : 

O  Spirit,  purer  than  the  dew, 

Thine  holiness  in  strength  reveal. 

Felt  art  thou,  and  the  heavy  heart 

Grows  cheerful  and  makes  bright  the  eyes  : 

Up  from  the  dust  the  enfeebled  start, 
Armed  and  re-nerved  for  victories  : 


THOMAS  TORE  LYNCH. 

Felt  art  thou,  and  relieving  tears 
Fall,  nourishing  our  young  r 

Felt  art  thou,  and  our  icy  fears 
The  sunny  smile  of  love  dissolves. 

O  Spirit,  when  thy  mighty  wind 

The  entombing  rocks  of  sin  hath  rent, 

Lead  shuddering  forth  the  awakened  mind, 
In  still  voice  whispering  thine  intent. 

As  to  the  sacred  light  of  day 

The  stranger  soul  shall  trembling  come, 
Say,  "These  thy  friends,"  and  "This  thy  way," 

And  "  Yonder  thy  celestial  home." 


6o  MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD, 


XXXIX. 

THE  DIVINITY. 

"  Yes,  write  it  in  the  rock,"  Saint  Bernard  said, 
"  Grave  it  on  brass  with  adamantine  pen  ! 
'Tis  God  himself  becomes  apparent,  when 
God's  wisdom  and  God's  goodness  are  displayed, 

For  God  of  these  his  attributes  is  made  " — 
Well  spake  the  impetuous  Saint,  and  bore  of  men 
The  suffrage  captive  \  now,  not  one  in  ten 
Recalls  the  obscure  opposer  he  outweigh'd. 

GooVs  wisdom  and  God's  goodness  ! — Ay,  but  fools 
Mis-define  these  till  God  knows  them  no  more. 
Wisdom  and  goodness,  they  are  God  ! — what  schools 

Have  yet  so  much  as  heard  this  simpler  lore  ? 
This  no  Saint  preaches,  and  this  no  Church  rules ; 
Tis  in  the  desert,  now  and  heretofore. 


HENRY  ALFORJK 


XL. 

"LITTLE  CHILDREN,  DWELL  IN  LOVE." 

Little  children,  dwell  in  love  ; — 
New  begotten  from  above, 
Ye  by  this  your  birth  may  know 
That  ye  dwell  in  love  below. 

God  your  Lather  reigns  on  high, 
Unbeheld  by  mortal  eye  ; 
Him  ye  see  not  ;  love  him,  then, 
In  his  types,  your  fellow-men. 

Not  in  semblance  nor  in  word, 
But  in  holy  thoughts  unheard, 
But  in  very  truth  and  deed 
Share  their  joy,  and  help  their  need. 

Thus  the  saint  whom  Jesus  loved 
Spoke  in  word,  in  action  proved  \ 
Lord,  may  thy  disciples  be 
Like  to  him  and  like  to  thee. 


JOHN  BY  ROM, 


XLI. 

"MY  SPIRIT  LOXGETH  FOR  THEE." 

My  spirit  longeth  for  thee 
Within  my  troubled  breast, 
Although  I  be  unworthy 
Of  so  Divine  a  Guest. 

Of  so  Divine  a  Guest 
Unworthy  though  I  be, 
Yet  hath  my  heart  no  rest 
Unless  it  come  from  thee. 

Unless  it  come  from  thee, 
In  vain  I  look  around  ; 
In  all  that  I  can  see 
No  rest  is  to  be  found. 

Xo  rest  is  to  be  found 
But  in  thy  blessed  love : 
O  let  my  wish  be  crowned, 
And  send  it  from  above. 


HORATIUS  BONAR. 


XLII. 
HE  LIVETH  LONG  WHO  LIVETH  WELL.5 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well  ! 

All  other  life  is  short  and  vain  ; 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 
Of  living  most  for  heavenly  gain. 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well ! 

All  else  is  being  flung  away  ; 
He  liveth  longest  who  can  tell 

Of  true  things  truly  done  each  day. 

Waste  not  thy  being  \  back  to  him, 

Who  freely  gave  it,  freely  give, 
Else  is  that  being  but  a  dream, 

Tis  but  to  be,  and  not  to  live. 

Be  wise,  and  use  thy  wisdom  well ; 

Who  wisdom  speaks  must  live  it  too ; 
He  is  the  wisest  who  can  tell 

How  first  he  lived,  then  spoke,  the  True. 

Be  what  thou  seemest  \  live  thy  creed  ; 

Hold  up  to  earth  the  torch  Divine ; 
Be  what  thou  prayest  to  be  made ; 

Let  the  great  Master's  steps  be  thine. 


64  HORATIUS  BONAR. 

Fill  up  each  hour  with  what  will  last  \ 
Buy  up  the  moments  as  they  go  ; 

The  life  above,  when  this  is  past, 
Is  the  ripe  fruit  of  life  below. 

Sow  Truth  if  thou  the  True  wouldst  reap; 

Who  sows  the  false  shall  reap  the  vain ; 
Erect  and  sound  thy  conscience  keep ; 

From  hollow  words  and  deeds  refrain. 

Sow  love,  and  taste  its  fruitage  pure  ; 

Sow  peace,  and  reap  its  harvest  bright ; 
Sow  sunbeams  on  the  rock  and  moor, 

And  find  a  harvest-home  of  light. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


XLIIL 

OLNEY  HYMNS.     XVIII. 

"LovestThou  Me?" 

Hark,  my  soul  !  it  is  the  Lord; 
Tis  thy  Saviour,  hear  his  word ; 
Jesus  speaks,  and  speaks  to  thee, 
"  Say,  poor  sinner,  lovest  thou  me? 


"  I  delivered  thee  when  bound, 
And,  when  bleeding,  healed  thy  wound  ; 
Sought  thee  wandering,  set  thee  right ; 
Turned  thy  darkness  into  light. 


11  Can  a  woman's  tender  care 
Cease  towards  the  child  she  bare  ? 
Yes,  she  may  forgetful  be, 
Vet  will  I  remember  thee. 


"  Mine  is  an  unchanging  love, 
Higher  than  the  heights  above, 
Deeper  than  the  depths  beneath, 
Free  and  faithful,  strong  as  death. 
6 


66  WILLIAM  CO  WPER. 

"  Thou  shalt  see  my  glory  soon, 
When  the  work  of  grace  is  done ; 
Partner  of  my  throne  shall  be  \ — 
Say,  poor  sinner,  lovest  thou  me  ? ! 


Lord,  it  is  my  chief  complaint, 
That  my  love  is  weak  and  faint 
Yet  I  love  thee,  and  adore; 
O  for  grace  to  love  thee  more  ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE,  6j 


XLIV. 

MY  BAPTISMAL  BIRTHDAY. 

God's  child  in  Christ  adopted, — Christ  my  all, — 
What  that  earth  boasts  were  not  lost  cheaply,  rather 
Than  forfeit  that  blest  name,  by  which  I  call 
The  Holy  One,  the  Almighty  God,  my  Father?— 
Father  !  in  Christ  we  live,  and  Christ  in  thee — 
Eternal  thou,  and  everlasting  we. 
The  heir  of  heaven,  henceforth  I  fear  not  death  : 
In  Christ  I  live  !  in  Christ  I  draw  the  breath 
Of  the  true  life  ! — Let,  then,  earth,  sea,  and  sky 
Make  war  against  me  !     On  my  front  I  show 
Their  mighty  Master's  seal.     In  vain  they  try 
To  end  my  life,  that  can  but  end  its  woe, — 
Is  that  a  death-bed  where  a  Christian  lies  ? — 
Yes  !  but  not  his — 'tis  Death  itself  there  dies. 


68  RICHARD    JVILTOy 

XLV. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  SOUL. 

Nigh  to  the  place  where  he  was  crucified 

A  sheltered  garden  lay, 
Where  roses  hung  their  heads,  with  crimson  dyed, 

And  blushed  their  lives  away, 
And  lilies  of  the  valley,  blanched  with  fear, 
Shook  from  their  silver  bells  the  trembling  tear. 

And  there  on  terraced  rock  the  vine  was  seen 

Wandering  with  quaint  festoon, 
Or  trained  with  care  into  an  arbour  green 

To  cool  the  rays  of  noon  : 
Not  yet  its  clusters  wooed  the  ripening  sun, 
Though  the  sharp  pruning-knife  its  work  had  done. 

And  many  a  fragrant  plant  and  freckled  flower 

Bordered  the  paths  below, 
And  proffered  to  the  gardeners  hand  the  dower 

Of  scent  or  vernal  glow ; 
While  in  the  shady  corners  mint  and  rue 
And  bitter  herbs  for  humbler  uses  grew. 

Here,  where  he  sat  or  walked,  the  rich  man  made 

A  flower-encircled  tomb  ; 
And  here  by  loving  hands  the  Lord  was  laid 

To  rest  in  the  green  gloom ; 
And  here  he  woke  and  threw  a  charm  around 
The  dewy  stillness  of  that  garden-ground. 


ICHARD   WILTON. 

I  have  a  garden,  Lord,  to  share  with  thee — 

Nay,  let  it  all  be  thine ; 
And  very  near  to  it  is  seen  the  True 

Of  Sacrifice  Divine, 
In  whose  fair  shadow  thou  canst  show  thy  face, 
And  turn  to  holy  ground  the  lowliest  place. 

Let  my  Beloved  to  his  garden  come 

And  eat  his  pleasant  fruits. 
The  ripest  clusters  with  the  richest  bloom 

From  off  the  goodliest  shoots ; 
If  any  such  can  grow  in  this  poor  soil, 
On  which  my  Lord  has  spent  such  teais  and  toil. 

But  if  the  fruits  of  holiness  are  scant, 

And  few  its  blossoms  sweet, 
Yet  would  I  find  some  herb  or  creeping  plant 

To  lay  at  thy  pierced  feet — 
The  hyssop  small,  or  penitential  rue, 
Wet  with  the  tear-drops  of  the  early  dew. 

Only,  O  Lord,  as  in  that  garden-ground 

Beside  the  Cross  of  shame, 
May  thy  dear  presence  in  my  heart  be  found, 

And  its  glad  homage  claim  ; 
Nor  ever  break  the  soul  which  Love  would  place 
Upon  the  secret  home  of  dying  Grace  ! 


;o  GEORGE  HERBERT. 


XLVI. 
THE  SEARCH. 

Whither,  0  whither  art  thou  fled, 

My  Lord,  my  Love  ? 
My  searches  are  my  daily  bread, 

Yet  never  prove. 

My  knees  pierce  earth,  mine  eyes  the  sky ; 

And  yet  the  sphere 
And  centre  both  to  me  deny 

That  thou  art  there. 

Yet  can  I  mark  how  herbs  below 

Grow  green  and  gay, 
As  if  to  meet  thee  they  did  know, 

While  I  decay. 

Yet  can  I  mark  how  stars  above 

Simper  and  shine, 
As  having  keys  unto  thy  love, 

While  poor  I  pine. 

I  sent  a  sigh  to  seek  thee  out, 

Deep  drawn  in  pain, 
Winged  like  an  arrow,  but  my  scout 

Returns  in  vain. 


)RGE  HERBERT. 

I  tuned  another, — having  store, — 

Into  a  groan, 
Because  the  search  was  dumb  before; 

But  all  was  one. 

Lord,  dost  thou  some  new  fabric  mould 

Which  favour  wins, 
And  keeps  the  present  \  leaving  the  old 

Unto  their  sins. 

Where  is  my  God  ?     What  hidden  place 

Conceals  thee  still? 
What  covert  dare  eclipse  thy  face? 

Is  it  thy  will? 

O  let  not  that  of  anything  j 

Let  rather  brass, 
Or  steel,  or  mountains  be  thy  ring, 

And  I  will  pass. 

Thy  will  such  an  intrenching  is 

As  passeth  thought ; 
To  it  all  strength,  all  subtleties 

Are  things  of  nought. 

Thy  will  such  a  strange  distance  is 

As  that  to  it 
East  and  West  touch,  the  poles  do  kiss, 

And  parallels  meet. 

Since  then  my  grief  must  be  as  large 

As  is  thy  space, 
Thy  distance  from  me  ;  see  my  charge, 

Lord,  see  my  case. 


72  GEORGE  HERBERT, 

O  take  these  bars,  these  lengths  away  \ 

Turn,  and  restore  me, 
"  Be  not  Almighty,"  let  me  say, 

"  Against,  but  for  me." 

When  thou  dost  turn,  and  wilt  be  near, 

What  edge  so  keen, 
What  point  so  piercing  can  appear 

To  come  between  ? 

For  as  thine  absence  doth  excel 

All  distance  known, 
So  doth  thy  nearness  bear  the  bell, 

Making  two  one. 


SfA  THOMAS  BROWN. 


XI  All. 

FROM  "RELIGIO    MEDICI." 

The  night  is  come.     Like  to  the  day 
Depart  not  thou,  great  God,  away  : 
Let  not  my  sins,  black  as  the  night, 
Eclipse  the  lustre  of  thy  light : 
Keep  still  in  my  horizon,  for  to  me 
The  sun  makes  not  the  day,  but  thee 
Thou,  whose  nature  cannot  sleep, 
On  my  temples  sentry  keep ; 
Guard  me  'gainst  those  watchful  foes 
Whose  eyes  are  open  while  mine  close 
Let  no  dreams  my  head  infest 
But  such  as  Jacob's  temples  blest : 
While  I  do  rest,  my  soul  advance  \ 
Make  my  sleep  a  holy  trance, 
That  I  may,  my  rest  being  wrought, 
Awake  into  some  holy  thought, 
And  with  as  active  vigour  run 
My  course  as  doth  the  nimble  sun. 
Sleep  is  a  death  \  O  make  me  try 
By  sleeping  what  it  is  to  die  ; 
And  as  gently  lay  my  head 
On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 
Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
Awake  again  at  last  with  thee ; 
And  thus  assured,  behold  I  lie 
Securely,  or  to  wake  or  die. 


SIX  THOMAS  BROWNE. 

These  are  my  drowsy  days ;  in  vain 
I  do  now  wake  to  sleep  again  ; 
O  come  that  hour,  when  I  shall  never 
Sleep  again,  but  wake  for  ever. 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 


XLVIIL 

NOX   NOCTI    IXDICAT    SCIENTIAM 

When  I  survey  the  bright 
Celestial  sphere 
So  rich  with  jewels  Lung,  that  night 
Doth  like  an  .Kthiop  bride  appear ; 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 

And  heavenward  lues, 
The  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volumes  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 
Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 

No  unregarded  star 
Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 
Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 

But  if  we  steadfast  look, 
We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 
How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn. 


7  6  WILLIAM  I1ABING  TON. 

It  tells  the  conqueror 
That  far  stretched  power 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for 
Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour  : 


That  from  the  furthest  north 
Some  nation  may 
Yet  undiscovered  issue  forth 
And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway ; 


Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice 
May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 


And  then  they  likewise  shall 
Their  ruin  have, 
For  as  yourselves  your  empires  fall, 
And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave. 


Thus  those  celestial  fires, 
Though  seeming  mute, 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires 
And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute. 


For  they  have  watched  since  first 
The  world  had  birth  ; 
And  found  sin  in  itself  accursed, 
And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 


GEORGE  MACl  ONALl  .  77 


XL1X. 


MARRIAGE   SONG. 


"They  have  no  more  wine,"  she  said. 
But  they  had  enough  of  bread  ; 
And  the  well  beside  the  door 
Held  for  thirst  a  plenteous  store  \ 
Yes,  enough  ;  but  Love  divine 
Made  the  water  into  vune. 


When  should  wine  in  plenty  flow 
But  when  wanderers  homeward  go? 
And  when  soul  in  soul  hath  found 
Rest,  in  bonds  of  freedom  bound, 
He  hath  said,  by  act  divine, 
Water  well  may  turn  to  wine. 


Good  is  all  the  feasting  then  ; 
Good  the  merry  words  of  men  ; 
Good  the  laughter  and  the  smiles  • 
Good  the  wine  that  grief  beguiles — 
Crowning  good,  the  Word  divine  : 
Jesus  made  the  water  wine. 


73  GEORGE  MACDONALD. 

He  beside  you,  call  the  years, 
Into  laughter  turn  your  tears ; 
In  the  earthly  tones  around 
Make  you  hear  the  heavenly  sound - 
At  your  table  Love  divine 
Often  make  the  water  wine. 


Earth  is  heaven  in  homelier  dress  : 
Hope  is  unseen  joyfulness : 
Walking  in  the  heavenly  light, 
Soon,  with  eyes  of  heavenly  sight, 
You  shall  know,  by  vision  fine, 
Earthly  water — heavenly  wine  ! 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 


1, 

AFTER   COMMUNION. 

Why  should  I  call  thee  Lord,  who  art  my  God  ? 
Why  should  I  call  thee  Friend,  who  art  my  Love  ? 
Or  King,  who  art  my  very  Spouse  above  ? 
Or  call  thy  sceptre  on  my  heart  thy  rod  ? 
I,o,  now  thy  banner  over  me  is  love, 
All  heaven  flies  open  to  me  at  thy  nod  ; 
For  thou  hast  lit  thy  flame  in  me  a  clod, 
Made  me  a  nest  for  dwelling  of  thy  Dove. 
What  wilt  thou  call  me  in  our  home  above, 
Who  now  hast  called  me  friend  ?  how  will  it  be 
When  thou  for  good  wine  settest  forth  the  best  ? 
Now  thou  dost  bid  me  come  and  sup  with  thee, 
Now  thou  dost  make  me  lean  upon  thy  breast : 
HowVill  it  be  with  me  in  time  of  love? 


8o  JOSEPH  GRIGG. 


LI. 

"BEHOLD!    A    STRANGER'S    AT    THE    DOOR!" 

Behold  !  a  Stranger's  at  the  door  ! 
He  gently  knocks,  has  knocked  before ; 
Has  waited  long,  is  waiting  still ; 
You  treat  no  other  friend  so  ill. 

But  will  he  prove  a  friend  indeed  ? 
He  will  \  the  very  friend  you  need. 
The  Man  of  Nazareth,  'tis  he  ! 
With  garments  dyed  at  Calvary. 

Oh,  lovely  attitude  !     He  stands 
With  melting  heart  and  laden  hands  : 
Oh,  matchless  kindness  !  and  he  shows 
This  matchless  kindness  to  his  foes. 

Rise  !  touched  with  gratitude  divine, 
Turn  out  his  enemy  and  thine — 
That  hateful,  hell-born  monster,  sin, 
And  let  the  heavenly  Stranger  in. 

If  thou  art  poor,  and  poor  thou  art, 
Lo  !  he  has  riches  to  impart ; 
Not  wealth,  in  which  mean  avarice  rolls  : 
Oh,  better  far,  the  wealth  of  souls  ! 


JOSEPH  GR1GG. 

;'rt  blind,  he'll  take  the  scales  away, 
And  let  in  everlasting  day  : 
Xaked  thou  art,  but  he  shall  drc 
Thy  blushing  soul  in  righteousness. 

Art  thou  a  weeper?     Grief  shall  fly, 

For  who  can  weep  with  Jesus  by  ? 
No  terror  shall  thy  hopes  annoy, 
No  tear — except  the  tear  of  joy. 

Admit  him  ;  for  the  human  breast 
Ne'er  entertained  so  kind  a  guest. 
Admit  him  ;  for  you  can't  expel ; 
Where'er  he  comes,  he  comes  to  dwell. 

Admit  him,  ere  his  anger  burn, 
His  feet  depart,  ne'er  to  return  ; 
Admit  him,  or  the  hour's  at  hand, 
When  at  his  door  denied  you'll  stand. 

Yet  know,  nor  of  the  terms  complain, 
If  Jesus  comes,  he  comes  to  reign — 
To  reign,  and  with  no  partial  sway ; 
Thoughts  must  be  slain  that  disobey. 

Sovereign  of  souls  !     Thou  Prince  of  peace  ! 
Oh,  may  thy  gentle  reign  increase  ! 
Throw  wide  the  door,  each  willing  mind, 
And  be  his  empire  all  mankind. 


S2  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BR  YANT. 

LII. 
HYMN   TO  THE  NORTH   STAR. 

The  sad  and  solemn  night 
Has  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  \ 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watchings,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens,  and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they  : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way  : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone  in  thy  cold  skies 
Thou  keepest  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dip'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air  ; 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure  walls. 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT.  83 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  : 

High  towards  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze — the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and  cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 
And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine,  to  guide  their  footsteps  right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 


84  CHARLES  KINGSLE  Y. 


LIII. 

LINGER  NO   MORE,    MY   BELOVED. 

Linger   no   more,  my  beloved,  by   Abbey,  and  cell,  and 

Cathedral, 
Mourn  not  for  holy  ones  mourning  of  old  them  who  knew 

not  the  Father, 
Weeping  with  fast  and  scourge,  when  the  Bridegroom  was 

taken  from  them. 
Drop  back  awhile  through  the  years,  to  the  warm  rich  youth 

of  the  nations, 
Child-like  in  virtue  and  faith,  though  child-like  in  passion 

and  pleasure, 
Child-like  still,  and  still  near  to  their  God,  while  the  day- 
spring  of  Eden 
Lingered  in  rose-red  rays  on  the  peaks  of  Ionian  mountains. 
Down  to  the  Mothers,  as  Faust  went,  I  go  to  the  roots  of 

our  manhood, 
Mothers  of  us  in  our  cradles  ;  of  us  once  more  in  our  glory, 
New-born  body  and  soul,  in  the  great  pure  world  wrhich 

shall  be, 
In  the  renewing  of  all  things,  when  man  shall  return  to  his 

Eden. 
Down  to  the  Mothers  I  go — yet  with  thee  still !  be  with  me 

thou  purest, 
Lead  me,  thy  hand  in  my  hand  :  and  the  day-spring  of  God 

go  before  us. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSBTTL 

LIV. 

DOST   THOU    NOT   CARE? 

I  love  and  love  not  :  Lord,  it  breaks  my  heart 

To  love  and  not  to  love. 
Thou  veiled  within  thy  glory,  gone  apart 

Into  thy  shrine,  which  is  above, 
Dost  thou  not  love  me,  Lord,  or  care 

For  this  mine  ill  ?  — 
/  love  thee  here  or  there, 

I  will  accept  thy  broken  heart,  lie  still. 

Lord,  it  was  well  with  me  in  time  gone  by 

That  cometh  not  again, 
When  I  was  fresh  and  cheerful,  who  but  I  ? 

I  fresh,  I  cheerful  :  worn  with  pain 
Now,  out  of  sight  and  out  of  heart ; 

0  Lord,  how  long  ? — 
I  watch  thee  as  thou  art, 

1  will  accept  thy  fainting  heart,  be  strong, 

"  Lie  still,  be  strong,"  to-day ;  but,  Lord,  to-morrow, 

What  of  to-morrow,  Lord  ? 
Shall  there  be  rest  from  toil,  be  truce  from  sorrow, 

Be  living  green  upon  the  sward, 
Now  but  a  barren  grave  to  me, 

Be  joy  for  sorrow  ? 
Did  I  not  die  for  thee  ? 

Do  I  not  live  for  thee  1  leave  Me  to- morrow. 


S6  JOHN  EMMET. 


LV. 


A   LITANY. 


Lord,  leave  us  not  to  wander  lonely 

Through  this  dark  world  unloved  by  thee : 
All  other  friends  are  helpless  only, 

Though  full  of  love  as  friends  may  be. 
Drear  are  the  fondest  homes  around  us, 

Sad  like  our  hearts  when  thou  art  far ; 
When  thou  hast  sought  us,  heard  us,  found  us, 

How  sweet  thy  consolations  are  ! 
Hear  us,  cheer  us, 
Lord,  and  leave  us  not  ! 


Leave  us  not  when  pride  and  anger 

In  the  heart  would  dare  rebel  : 
Claim  us  in  our  utmost  danger, 

Calm  us  at  the  mouth  of  hell, 
Leave  us  not  till  we  inherit 

Charity  that  works  no  ill, 
And  we  hear  thy  gentle  spirit 

Inly  whisper,  "  Peace,  be  still  !  " 
Hear  us,  cheer  us, 
Lord,  and  leave  us  not  ! 


JOHN  EMMET. 

Leave  US  not  in  days  of  trial, 

Let  us  act  at  duty's  call, 
Though  it  lead  to  self-denial, 

Though  we  have  to  give  up  all. 
Raised  on  high,  or  humbled  lowly, 

Praised  or  scorned  from  land  to  land, 
Bear  us  up,  our  Father  holy, 

Dear  our  burdens  in  thy  hand. 
Hear  us,  cheer  us, 
Lord,  and  leave  us  not  ! 

Leave  us  not  when  all  have  left  us, 

Health  and  vision,  strength  and  voice  ; 
When  of  friends  death  hath  bereft  us, 

Let  us  still  in  thee  rejoice  : 
Near  us  when  in  doubt,  to  guide  us ; 

Near  us  when  we  faint,  to  cheer  • 
Near  in  battle's  hour,  to  hide  us : 

Nearer  ever,  and  more  dear. 
Hear  us,  cheer  us, 
Lord,  and  leave  us  not  ! 


Leave  us  not  when  foes  come  nigher, 

Cheer  us  when  the  grave  looks  cold, 
Lead  us  onward,  upward,  higher, 

Forward  to  the  gates  of  gold. 
Leave  us  not  when  ailing,  failing, 

Sore  depressed,  and  bending  low  ; 
Be  thy  love  then  most  availing, 

Then  to  aid  us  be  not  slow. 
Hear  us,  cheer  us, 
Lord,  and  leave  us  not  ! 


83  JOHN  EMMET. 

Leave  us  not  till  thou  hast  brought  us 

To  the  holy,  wealthy  place, 
There  to  see  thee  who  hast  bought  us, 

Fought  our  fight,  and  won  our  race  : 
There  to  hear  no  more  the  shouting 

And  the  thunder  of  our  foes  ; 
Dangers  past,  and  past  all  doubting, 

And  the  grave's  austere  repose. 
Hear  us,  cheer  us, 
Lord,  and  leave  us  not ! 


JOHN  HENRY  NEWM 


LVI. 

FROM   "THE    DREAM  OF  GERONTIUS." 

ANGEL. 

Softly  and  gently,  dearly-ransomed  soul, 
In  my  most  loving  arms  I  now  enfold  thee, 

And,  o'er  the  penal  waters,  as  they  roll, 
I  poise  thee,  and  I  lower  thee,  and  hold  thee. 

And  carefully  I  dip  thee  in  the  lake, 
And  thou,  without  a  sob  or  a  resistance, 

Dost  through  the  flood  thy  rapid  passage  take, 
Sinking  deep,  deeper,  into  the  dim  distance. 

Angels,  to  whom  the  willing  task  is  given, 
Shall  tend,  and  nurse,  and  lull  thee,  as  thou  liest ; 

And  Masses  on  the  earth,  and  prayers  in  heaven, 
Shall  aid  thee  at  the  Throne  of  the  Most  Highest. 

Farewell,  but  not  for  ever  !  brother  dear, 
Be  brave  and  patient  on  thy  bed  of  sorrow ; 

Swiftly  shall  pass  the  night  of  trial  here, 
And  I  will  come  and  wake  thee  on  the  morrow. 


9o  REGINALD  HEBER. 


LVII. 
FUNERAL  HYMN. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee, 
Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass  the  tomb  : 

Thy  Saviour  has  passed  through  its  portal  before  thee, 
And  the  lamp  of  his  love  is  thy  guide  through  the  gloom  ! 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  we  no  longer  behold  thee, 
Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by  thy  side  ; 

But  the  wide  arms  of  Mercy  are  spread  to  enfold  thee, 
And  sinners  may  die,  for  the  Sinless  has  died ! 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !  and,  its  mansion  forsaking, 
Perchance  thy  weak  spirit  in  fear  lingered  long ; 

But  the  mild  rays  of  Paradise  beam'd  on  thy  waking, 

And  the  sound  which  thou  heardst  was  the  Seraphim's 
song  ! 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave !  but  we  will  not  deplore  thee, 
Whose  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian  and  guide; 

He  gave  thee,  he  took  thee,  and  he  w;ll  restore  thee, 
And  Death  has  no  sting,  for  the  Saviour  has  died  ! 


PATRICK  CARRY. 


LVIII. 

A   TRIOLET. 

Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  farewell  ! 

Farewell  all  earthly  joys  and  car. 

On  nobler  thoughts  my  soul  shall  dwell, 

Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  farewell  ! 

At  quiet,  in  my  peaceful  cell, 

I'll  think  on  God,  free  from  your  snares  ; 

Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  farewell ; 

Farewell  all  earthly  joys  and  cares. 

I'll  seek  my  God's  law  to  fulfil, 
Riches  and  power  I'll  set  at  nought ; 
Let  others  strive  for  them  that  will, 
111  seek  my  God's  law  to  fulfil : 
Lest  sinful  pleasures  my  soul  kill, 
By  folly's  vain  delights  first  caught, 
I'll  seek  my  God's  law  to  fulfil, 
Riches  and  power  I'll  set  at  nought. 

Yes,  my  dear  Lord  !  I've  found  it  so ; 
No  joys  but  thine  are  purely  sweet ; 
Other  delights  come  mixed  with  woe, 
Yes,  my  dear  Lord  !  I've  found  it  so. 
Pleasure  at  courts  is  but  in  show, 
With  true  content  in  cells  we  meet ; 
Yes,  my  dear  Lord  !  I've  found  it  so, 
No  joys  but  thine  are  purely  sweet. 


92  ROBERT  SOUTHWELL. 


LIX. 
A   CHILD    MY    CHOICE. 

Let  folly  praise  that   fancy  loves,  I  praise   and  love  that 

Child 
Whose  heart  no  thought,  whose  tongue  no  word,  whose  hand 

no  deed  defiled. 

I  praise  him  most,  I  love  him  best,  all  praise  and  love  is 

his ; 
While  him  I  love,  in  him  I  live,  and  cannot  live  amiss. 

Love's  sweetest  mark,  laud's    highest    theme,   man's    most 

desired  light, 
To  love  him  life,  to  leave  him  death,  to  live  in  him  delight. 

He  mine  by  gift,  I  his  by  debt,  thus  each  to  other  due, 
First  friend  he  was,  best  friend  he  is,  all  times  will  try  him 
true. 

Though  young,  yet  wise  ;  though  small,  yet  strong ;  though 

man,  yet  God  he  is ; 
As  wise  he  knows,  as  strong  he  can,  as  God  he  loves  to 

bless. 

His  knowledge  rules,  his  strength  defends,  his  love   doth 

cherish  all ; 
His  birth  our  joy,  his  life  our  light,  his  death  our  end  of 

thrall. 


ROBERT  SOUTHWELL.  93 

Alas  :  he  weeps,  he  sighs,  he  pants,  yet  do  his  angels  sing  ; 
Out  of  his  tears,  his  sighs  and  throbs,   doth  bud  a  joyful 
spring. 

Almighty  Babe,  whose  tender  arms  can  force    all    foes  to 

fly, 

Correct  my  faults,  protect  my  life,  direct  me  when  I  die  ! 


94       ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BRO  WNING 


LX. 

COMFORT. 

Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low  and  sweet 
From  out  the  hallelujahs,  sweet  and  low, 
Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss  thee  so 
Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  entreat. 
Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  thy  feet  ! 
And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands  bestow,  \ 
Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber  while  I  go 
In  reach  of  thy  divinest  voice  complete 
In  humanest  affection — thus,  in  sooth, 
To  lose  the  sense  of  losing.     As  a  child, 
Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for  evermore, 
Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  by  mother's  mouth, 
Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-reconciled, 
He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  before. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  95 


LXI. 

"VENI    CREATOR   SPIRITUS." 

Creator  Spirit  !  by  whose  aid 
The  world's  foundations  first  were  laid, 
Come  visit  every  pious  mind ; 
Come  pour  thy  joys  on  human  kind ; 
From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free 
And  make  thy  temples  worthy  thee. 


O  source  of  uncreated  light, 
The  Father's  promised  Paraclete  ! 
Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire, 
Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire  ; 
Come,  and  thy  sacred  unction  bring 
To  sanctify  us,  while  we  sing. 


Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 

Rich  in  thy  sevenfold  energy  ! 

Thou  strength  of  his  almighty  hand, 

Whose  powrer  does  heaven  and  earth  command. 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 

Who  dost  the  gift  of  tongues  dispense, 

And  crown'st  thy  gift  with  eloquence  ! 


9  6  JOHN  DR  \  'DEN. 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts  ; 
But,  oh,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts  ! 
Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control, 
Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 
And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 
Then  lay  thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe, 
And  peace,  the  fruit  of  Love,  bestow  ; 
And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 
Protect,  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 
And  practise  all  that  we  believe  : 
Give  us  thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father  and  the  Son  by  thee. 

Immortal  honour,  endless  fame, 
Attend  the  almighty  Fathers  name  : 
The  Saviour  Son  be  glorified, 
Who  for  lost  man's  redemption  died  : 
And  equal  adoration  be, 
Eternal  Paraclete,  to  thee. 


JOHN  MILTON.  c,7 


LXIL 

OX  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRIST'S  NATIVITY. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  heaven's  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 
Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring ; 
For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing, 
That  he  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  his  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  insufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty, 
Wherewith  he  wont  at  heaven's  high  council-table 
To  sit  the  midst  of  trinal  unity, 
He  laid  aside ;  and  here  with  us  to  be, 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 
And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 

Afford  a  present  to  the  infant  God  ? 
Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strain 
To  welcome  him  to  this  his  new  abode, 
Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 
Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons  bright 


98  JOHN  MILTON. 

See  how,  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road, 

The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet 
O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ; 
Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet ; 
And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  choir, 
From  out  his  secret  altar  touched  with  hallowed  fire. 


HYMN. 

It  was  the  winter  wild, 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies ; 
Nature,  in  awe  to  him, 
Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 
With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize  : 
It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow 
And  on  her  naked  shame, 
Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 
The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw  • 
Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities. 

But  he,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 


JOHN  MILTON.  99 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 
Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

1  [is  ready  harbinger, 
With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing  ; 
And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 
She  strikes  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land. 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound, 
Was  heard  the  world  around  : 
The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up-hung  \ 
The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 
The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng ; 
And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 
As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 
His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began ; 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 
Smoothly  the  water  kissed, 
Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 
While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave. 

The  stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixed  in  stedfast  gaze, 
Bending  one  way  their  precious  influence  j 
And  will  not  take  their  flight 
For  all  the  morning  light, 
Or  Lucifer,  that  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 


ioo  JOHN  MILTON. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 
The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 
And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 
As  his  inferior  flame 
The  new  enlightened  world  no  more  should  need  : 
He  saw  a  greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axletree  could  bear. 


The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 
Or  e'er  the  point  of  dawn, 
Sat  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row  : 
Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 
Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below  ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 
Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep. 


When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet, 
As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook — 
Divinely  warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took  : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly  close. 


Nature,  that  heard  such  sound, 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 


JOHN  MILTON.  i    i 

Of  Cynthia's  scat  the  airy  region  thrilling, 

Now  was  almost  won 

To  think  her  part  was  done, 
And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A  globe  of  circular  light, 
That  with  long  beams  the  shame-faced  night  arrayed  ; 
The  helmed  cherubim 
And  sworded  seraphim 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  displayed, 
Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  choir, 
With  unexpressive  notes  to  heaven's  new-born  heir. 

Such  music,  as  'tis  said, 
Before  was  never  made, 
But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 
And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung, 
And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 
And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres  ; 
Once  bless  our  human  ears — 
If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so  ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time ; 
And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow  ; 
And,  with  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


102  JOHN  MILTON. 

For  if  such  holy  song 
Enwrap  our  fancy  long, 
Time  will  run  back  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold ; 
And  speckled  vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die  \ 
And  leprous  sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould, 
And  hell  itself  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the  peering  day. 


Yea,  truth  and  justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 
Orbed  in  a  rainbow  ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 
Mercy  will  sit  between, 
Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 
With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering 
And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 
Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 


But  wisest  Fate  says,  No ; 
This  must  not  yet  be  so, — 
The  babe  lies  yet  in  smiling  infancy, 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  redeem  our  loss, 
So  both  himself  and  us  to  glorify  : 
Yet  first,  to  those  enchained  in  sleep, 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder  through  the  deep, 


With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 


JOHN  MILTON. 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbroke  : 
The  aged  earth  aghast 

With  terror  of  that  blast, 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake ; 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread  his  throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is  : 
But  now  begins  :  for  from  this  happy  day 
The  old  dragon  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 
Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ; 
And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  oracles  are  dumb  ; 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving  : 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving  ; 
No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale, 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 
The  parting  ge?iius  is  with  sighing  sent  ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn, 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled  thickets  mourn. 


1 04  JOHN  MILTON. 

In  consecrated  earth, 
And  on  the  holy  hearth, 
The  Lars,  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint ; 
In  urns  and  altars  round, 
A  drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint ; 
And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 
While  each  peculiar  power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 


Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine  ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine  ; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn : 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz  mourn. 


And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol,  all  of  blackest  hue  ; 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king, 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue. 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste. 


Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 


J01LX  MILTON.  i 

Trampling  the  unshowered  grass  with  lowiogs  loud  ; 
Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest ; 
Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his  shroud  : 
In  vain,  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark, 
The  sable-Stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipped  ark. 

He  feels,  from  Judah's  land, 
The  dreaded  infant's  hand  ; 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyne  : 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide — 
Nor  Typhon  huge,  ending  in  snaky  twine ; 
Our  babe,  to  show  his  Godhead  true, 
Can  in  his  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 
Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail — 
Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave  ; 
And  the  yellow- skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon-loved  maze. 

But  see,  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest : 
Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending ; 
Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 
Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp  attending ; 
And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit,  in  order  serviceable. 


1 06  HENR  Y  HART  MILMAN. 


LXIII. 

HYMN,  FROM  "BELSHAZZAR." 

God  of  the  thunder  !  from  whose  cloudy  seat 

The  fury  winds  of  desolation  flow  : 
Father  of  vengeance  !  that  with  purple  feet, 

Like  a  full  wine-press,  tread'st  the  world  below ; 
The  embattled  armies  wait  thy  sign  to  slay, 
Nor  springs  the  beast  of  havoc  on  his  prey, 
Nor  withering  Famine  walks  his  blasted  way, 

Till  thou  the  guilty  land  hast  sealed  for  woe. 

God  of  the  rainbow  !  at  whose  gracious  sign 

The  billows  of  the  proud  their  rage  suppress  : 
Father  of  mercies  !  at  one  word  of  thine 

An  Eden  blooms  in  the  waste  wilderness  ! 
And  fountains  sparkle  in  the  arid  sands, 
And  timbrels  ring  in  maidens'  glancing  hands, 
And  marble  cities  crown  the  laughing  lands, 
And  pillared  temples  rise  thy  name  to  bless. 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  thunders  broke — oh,  Lord  ! 

The  chariots  rattled  o'er  her  sunken  gate, 
Her  sons  were  wasted  by  the  Assyrian  sword, 

Even  her  foes  wept  to  see  her  fallen  state ; 
And  heaps  her  ivory  palaces  became, 
Her  princes  wore  the  captive's  garb  of  shame, 
Her  temple  sank  amid  the  smouldering  flame, 

For  thou  didst  ride  the  tempest-cloud  of  fate. 


HENR  V  HART  MILMAN,  107 

O'er  Judah's  land  thy  rainbow,  Lord,  shall  beam, 

And  the  sad  city  lift  her  crownless  head  ; 
And  songs  shall  wake,  and  dancing  footsteps  gleam, 

Where  broods  o'er  fallen  streets  the  silence  of  the  dead  : 
The  sun  shall  shine  on  Salem's  gilded  towers, 
On  Carmel's  side  our  maidens  cull  the  flowers, 
To  deck,  at  blushing  eve,  their  bridal  bowers  ; 

And  angel  feet  the  glittering  Sion  tread. 

Thy  vengeance  gave  us  to  the  stranger's  hand, 

And  Abraham's  children  were  led  forth  for  slaves  ; 
With  fettered  steps  we  left  our  pleasant  land, 

Envying  our  fathers  in  their  peaceful  graves  : 
The  stranger's  bread  with  bitter  tears  we  steep, 
And  when  our  weary  eyes  should  sink  to  sleep, 
'Neath  the  mute  midnight  we  steal  forth  to  weep, 
Where  the  pale  willows  shade  Euphrates'  waves. 

The  born  in  sorrow  shall  bring  forth  in  joy ; 

Thy  mercy,  Lord,  shall  lead  thy  children  home  ; 
He  that  went  forth  a  tender  yearling  boy, 

Yet,  ere  he  die,  to  Salem's  streets  shall  come  : 
And  Canaan's  vines  for  us  their  fruits  shall  bear, 
And  Hermon's  bees  their  honied  stores  prepare  ; 
And  we  shall  kneel  again  in  thankful  prayer, 

Where,  o'er   the   cherub-seated   God,  full  blazed   the 
irradiate  dome. 


io8  ED  WARD  DO  WD  EN, 


LXIV. 
NEW  HYMNS  FOR  SOLITUDE. 


I  come  to  thee  not  asking  aught  \  I  crave 

No  gift  of  thine,  no  grace ; 
Yet  where  the  suppliants  enter  let  me  have 

Within  thy  courts  a  place. 

My  hands,  my  heart  contain  no  offering ; 

Thy  name  I  would  not  bless 
With  lips  untouched  by  altar-fire  \  I  bring 

Only  my  weariness. 

These  are  the  children,  frequent  in  thy  home  \ 

Grant,  Lord,  to  each  his  share ; 
Then  turn,  and  merely  gaze  on  me,  who  come 

To  lay  my  spirit  bare. 


Yet  one  more  step — no  flight 
The  weary  soul  can  bear — 

Into  a  whiter  light, 

Into  a  hush  more  rare. 


EDWARD  DOWDEN. 

Take  me,  I  am  all  thine, 

Thine  now,  not  seeking  thee, — 
Hid  in  the  secret  shrine, 
Lost  in  the  shoreless  sea. 


Grant  to  the  prostrate  soul 
Prostration  new  and  sweet, 

Make  weak  the  weak,  control 
Thy  creature  at  thy  feet. 


Passive  I  lie  :  shine  down, 

Pierce  through  the  will  with  straight 
Swift  beams,  one  after  one, 

Divide,  disintegrate, 


Free  me  from  self, — resume 
My  place,  and  be  thou  there  ; 

Yet  also  keep  me.     Come 

Thou  Saviour  and  thou  Slayer  ! 


in. 

Nothing  remains  to  say  to  thee,  O  Lord, 

I  am  confessed, 
x\ll  my  lips'  empty  crying  thou  hast  heard, 

My  unrest,  my  rest. 
Why  wait  I  any  longer  ?     Thou  dost  stay, 
And  therefore,  Lord,  I  would  not  go  away. 


i  io  ED  WARD  DO  WD  EN. 

Let  me  be  at  thy  feet  a  little  space, 

Forget  me  here ; 
I  will  not  touch  thy  hand,  nor  seek  thy  face, 

Only  be  near, 
And  this  hour  let  thy  nearness  feed  the  heart, 
And  when  thou  goest  I  also  will  depart. 

Then  when  thou  seekest  thy  way,  and  I  mine, 

Let  the  World  be 
Not  wide  and  cold  after  this  cherishing  shrine 

Illum'd  by  thee, 
Nay,  but  worth  worship,  fair,  a  radiant  star, 
Tender  and  strong  as  thy  chief  angels  are. 

Yet  bid  me  not  go  forth  :  I  cannot  now 

Take  hold  on  joy, 
Nor  sing  the  swift,  glad  song,  nor  bind  my  brow  \ 

Her  wise  employ 
Be  mine,  the  silent  woman  at  thy  knee 
In  the  low  room  in  little  Bethany. 


IV. 


Ah,  that  sharp  thrill  through  all  my  frame  ! 

And  yet  once  more  !     Withstand 
I  can  no  longer  ;  in  thy  name 

I  yield  me  to  thy  hand. 

Such  pangs  were  in  the  soul  unborn, 

The  fear,  the  joy  were  such, 
When  first  it  felt  in  that  keen  morn 

A  dread,  creating  touch. 


EDWARD  D01VDEX.  in 

Maker  of  man,  thy  pressure  sure 

This  grosser  stuff  must  quell ; 
The  spirit  faints,  yet  will  endure, 

Subdue,  control,  compel. 

The  Potter's  finger  shaping  me.  .  .   . 

Praise,  praise  !  the  clay  curves  up 
Not  for  dishonour,  though  it  be 

God's  least  adorned  cup. 


Sins  grew  a  heavy  load  and  cold, 
And  pressed  me  to  the  dust ; 

"  Whither,"  I  cried,  "  can  this  be  rolled 
Ere  I  behold  the  Just  ?  " 

But  now  I  claim  them  for  my  own  ; 

Thy  face  I  needs  must  find ; 
Lo !  thus  I  wrought,  yea,  I  alone, 

Not  weak,  beguiled,  or  blind. 

See  my  full  arms,  my  heaped-up  shame, 

An  evil  load  I  bring  : 
Thou,  God,  art  a  consuming  flame, 

Accept  the  hateful  thing. 

Pronounce  the  dread  condemning  word, 

I  stand  in  blessed  fear ; 
Dear  is  thy  cleansing  wrath,  O  Lord, 

The  fire  that  burns  is  dear. 


U2  EDWARD  DOWDEN. 

VI. 

I  found  thee  in  my  heart,  O  Lord, 
As  in  some  secret  shrine ; 

I  knelt,  I  waited  for  thy  word, 
I  joyed  to  name  thee  mine. 


I  feared  to  give  myself  away 

To  that  or  this  ;  beside 
Thy  altar  on  my  face  I  lay, 

And  in  strong  need  I  cried. 

Those  hours  are  past.     Thou  art  not  mine, 

And  therefore  I  rejoice, 
I  wait  within  no  holy  shrine, 

I  faint  not  for  the  voice. 

In  thee  we  live  ;  and  every  wind 
Of  heaven  is  thine ;  blown  free 

To  west,  to  east,  the  God  enshrined 
Is  still  discovering  me. 


CHARLES  WESLEY.  113 


LXV. 

WRESTLING  JACOB. 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see  ! 

My  company  before  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  thee ; 

With  thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

x\nd  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  thee  who  I  am, 

My  misery  or  sin  declare  ; 
Thyself  hast  called  me  by  my  name  \ 

Look  on  thy  hands,  and  read  it  there. 
But  who,  I  ask  thee,  who  art  thou? 
Tell  me  thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  thou  strugglest  to  get  free  \ 
I  never  will  unloose  my  hold, 

Art  thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me  ? 
The  secret  of  thy  love  unfold  : 

Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 

Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 
Thy  new,  unutterable  name  ? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  thee,  tell ; 
9 


ri4  CHARLES  WESLEY. 

To  know  it  now  resolved  I  am  : 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

'Tis  all  in  vain  to  hold  thy  tongue, 
Or  touch  the  hollow  of  my  thigh  ; 

Though  every  sinew  be  unstrung, 
Out  of  my  arms  thou  shalt  not  fly  ; 

Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  thee  go 

Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain, 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long  ! 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain  ; 

When  I  am  weak,  then  I  am  strong ; 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  God-man  prevail. 

My  strength  is  gone,  my  nature  dies  ; 

I  sink  beneath  thy  weighty  hand  : 
Faint  to  revive,  and  fall  to  rise ; 

I  fall,  and  yet  by  faith  I  stand  : 
I  stand,  and  will  not  let  thee  go 
Till  I  thy  name,  thy  nature  know. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 
But  confident  in  self-despair  ; 

Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak  ; 
Be  conquered  by  my  instant  prayer : 

Speak,  or  thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 

And  tell  me  if  thy  name  is  Love. 


CHARLES  WESLEY. 

Tis  Love  !  'tis  Love  !  Thou  diedst  for  me  ! 

I  hear  thy  whisper  in  my  heart : 
The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  fk 

Pure,  universal  Love  thou  art  ! 
To  me,  to  all,  thy  bowels  move ; 
Thy  nature,  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God ;  the 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive ; 
Through  faith  I  see  thee  face  to  face — 

I  see  thee  face  to  face,  and  live  : 
In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove ; 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 


I  know  thee,  Saviour — who  thou  art — 
Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend  ; 

Xor  wilt  thou  with  the  night  depart, 
Tut  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end  : 

Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove  ; 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  on  me 

Hath  rose,  with  healing  in  his  wings  ; 

Withered  my  nature's  strength  ;  from  th 
My  soul  its  life  and  succour  brings. 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above  : 

Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Contented  now,  upon  my  thigh, 

I  halt  till  life's  short  journey  end  : 
All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 


u6  CHARLES  WESLEY. 

On  thee  alone  for  strength  depend. 
Nor  have  I  power  from  thee  to  move  : 
.  Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey ; 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin,  with  ease  o'ercome ; 
I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way, 

And  as  a  bounding  hart  fly  home  ; 
Through  all  eternity  to  prove 
Thy  nature  and  thy  name  is  Love. 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STE I rENSON.  i  1 7 


LXVL 

THE  CELESTIAL  SURGEON. 

If  I  have  faltered  more  or  less 
In  my  great  task  of  happiness  ; 
If  I  have  moved  among  my  race 
And  shown  no  glorious  morning  face  ; 
If  beams  from  happy  human  eyes 
Have  moved  me  not ;  if  morning  skies, 
Books,  and  my  food,  and  summer  rain 
Knocked  on  my  sullen  heart  in  vain  :— 
Lord,  thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take, 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake ; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in  ! 


t  1 3  E MIL  Y  BR  ONTE. 


LXVII. 

"NO  COWARD  SOUL  IS  MINE." 

No  coward  soul  is  mine, 
No  trembler  in  the  world's  storm-troubled  sphere  : 

I  see  heaven's  glories  shine, 
And  faith  shines  equal,  arming  me  from  fear. 

O  God,  within  my  breast, 
Almighty,  ever-present  Deity  ! 

Life — that  in  me  has  rest, 
As  I — undying  Life — have  power  in  thee  ! 

Vain  are  the  thousand  creeds 
That  move  men's  hearts  :  unutterably  vain  ; 

Worthless  as  withered  weeds, 
Or  idlest  froth  amid  the  boundless  main, 

To  waken  doubt  in  one 
Holding  so  fast  by  thine  infinity  ; 

So  surely  anchored  on 
The  stedfast  rock  of  immortality. 

With  wide-embracing  love 
Thy  Spirit  animates  eternal  years, 

Pervades  and  broods  above, 
Changes,  sustains,  dissolves,  creates,  and  rears. 


EMILY  £H07\  n 

Though  earth  and  man  were  gone, 
And  suns  and  universes  ceased  to  be, 
And  thou  wert  left  alone, 

;tence  would  exist  in  thee 

There  is  not  room  for  Death, 
Nor  atom  that  his  might  could  render  void  : 

Thou — thou  art  Being  and  Breath, 
And  what  th  .u  art  may  never  be  destroyed. 


120  THOMAS  MOORE 


LXVIIL 

"THE  BIRD  LET  LOOSE  IN  EASTERN  SKIES." 

The  bird  let  loose  in  eastern  skies, 

When  hastening  fondly  home, 
Ne'er  stoops  to  earth  her  wing,  nor  flies 

Where  idle  warblers  roam  ; 
But  high  she  shoots  thro'  air  and  light, 

Above  all  low  delay, 
Where  nothing  earthly  bounds  her  flight, 

Nor  shadow  dims  her  way. 

So  grant  me,  God,  from  every  care 

And  stain  of  passion  free, 
Aloft,  thro'  virtue's  purer  air, 

To  hold  my  course  to  thee  ! 
Xo  sin  to  cloud,  no  lure  to  stay 

My  soul,  as  home  she  springs ; — 
Thy  sunshine  on  her  joyful  way, 

Thy  freedom  in  her  wings  ! 


GEORGE  ELIOT.  121 


LXIX. 

"  O  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE." 

11  Longum  Iliad  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magis  me  movet,  quam  hoc 
exiguum." — Cicero,  ad  Att.,  xii.  18. 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  \  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven  : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child, 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved  ; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 


122  GEORGE  ELIOT. 

That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 
And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love  — 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  for  ever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGII. 


LXX. 

"THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY." 

What  we,  when  face  to  face  we  see 
The  Father  of  our  souls,  shall  be, 
John  tells  us,  doth  not  yet  appear  \ 
Ah  !  did  he  tell  what  we  are  here  ! 

A  mind  for  thoughts  to  pass  into, 
A  heart  for  loves  to  travel  through, 
Five  senses  to  detect  things  near, 
Is  this  the  whole  that  we  are  here  ? 

Rules  baffle  instincts — instincts  rules, 
Wise  men  are  bad — and  good  are  fools, 
Facts  evil — wishes  vain  appear, 
We  cannot  go,  why  are  we  here  ? 

O  may  we  for  assurance  sake, 
Some  arbitrary  judgment  take, 
And  wilfully  pronounce  it  clear, 
For  this  or  that  'tis  we  are  here. 

Or  is  it  right,  and  will  it  do, 
To  pace  the  sad  confusion  through, 
And  say  :  It  doth  not  yet  appear, 
What  we  shall  be,  what  we  are  here  ? 


i24  ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH 

Ah  yet,  when  all  is  thought  and  said, 
The  heart  still  overrules  the  head  ; 
Still  what  we  hope  we  must  believe, 
And  what  is  given  us  receive ; 

Must  still  believe,  for  still  we  hope 
That  in  a  world  of  larger  scope, 
What  here  is  faithfully  begun 
Will  be  completed,  not  undone. 

My  child,  we  still  must  think,  when  we 
That  ampler  life  together  see, 
Some  true  result  will  yet  appear 
Of  what  we  are,  together,  here. 


SAMUEL   WADDlNGTi 


LXXI. 

WHAT  GOSPEL? 

What  gospel,  still,  what  gospel  ?     Christ,  yea,  Christ ! 
Back  to  the  shores  of  Galilee  once  more, 
To  the  old  lesson  of  love,  the  simple  lore 

Of  peace  and  wisdom  that  the  world  sufficed. 

Christ  !  for  he  spake  with  pity,  nor  enticed 
The  broken-hearted  to  an  empty  store  ; — 

Christ !  for  his  words  true  balm  and  healing  pour 

In  the  world's  wounds,  the  holy  words  of  Christ ! 

What  gospel,  still,  what  gospel?     Love,  yea,  Love  ! 

There  is  no  heaven,  and  no  hope  but  this, — 

No  heritage  of  joy,  no  hallowed  bliss 
To  wing  the  spirit  to  the  realm  above  ; 

Oh,  vain  glad  tidings,  and  oh,  little  worth, — 

Unless  our  charity  make  glad  the  earth. 


126  IIARTLE  Y  COLERIDGE. 


LXXIL 

THE  WORD  OF  GOD. 

In  holy  books  we  read  how  God  hath  spoken 
To  holy  men  in  many  different  ways ; 

But  hath  the  Present  worked  no  sign  or  token, — 
Is  God  quite  silent  in  these  latter  days  ? 

And  hath  our  heavenly  Sire  departed  quite, 
And  left  his  poor  babes  in  this  world  alone, 

And  only  left  for  blind  belief — not  sight — 

Some  quaint  old  riddles  in  a  tongue  unknown  ? 

Oh  !  think  it  not,  sweet  maid  !     God  comes  to  us 
With  every  day,  with  every  star  that  rises ; 

In  every  moment  dwells  the  Righteous, 

And  starts  upon  the  soul  with  sweet  surprises. 

The  word  were  but  a  blank,  a  hollow  sound, 
If  he  that  spoke  it  were  not  speaking  still, — 

If  all  the  light  and  all  the  shade  around 
Were  aught  but  issues  of  Almighty  will, 

Sweet  girl,  believe  that  every  bird  that  sings, 
And  every  flower  that  stars  the  elastic  sod, 

And  every  thought  the  happy  summer  brings 
To  thy  pure  spirit,  is  a  word  of  God. 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


LXXIII. 

THE  DIVINE  IMAGE. 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
All  pray  in  their  distress  ; 
And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Return  their  thankfulness. 

For  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love, 
Is  God,  our  Father  dear ; 
And  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love 
Is  man,  his  child  and  care. 

For  mercy  has  a  human  heart, 
Pity,  a  human  face ; 
And  love,  the  human  form  divine, 
And  peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man  of  every  clime, 
That  prays  in  his  distress, 
Prays  to  the  human  form  divine, 
Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form 
In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew; 
Where  mercy,  love,  and  pity  dwell, 
There  God  is  dwelling  too. 


128  MA  TTHE  W  ARNOLD. 


LXXIV. 
MORALITY. 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 

The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides, 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides  ; 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  will'd 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfill'd. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul, 

When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye. 

Ask,  how  she  viewed  thy  self-control, 

Thy  struggling,  tasked  morality — 

Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread, 
Whose  eye  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek, 


MA  TTIIE  W  ARNOLD.  1 2  j 

See,  on  lier  face  a  glow  is  spread, 

A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek  ! 

11  Ah,  child  ! "  she  cries,  u  that  strife  divine, 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine  ? 

"  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow — 

I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep  \ 

I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres  and  glow 

In  joy,  and,  when  I  will,  I  sleep  ! 

Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once — but  where  ? 

11 1  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space  \ 

I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime  ! 

I  saw  it  in  some  other  place  ! 

*Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God.'J 


10 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL 


LXXV. 

DESPISED   AND   REJECTED. 

My  sun  has  set,  I  dwell 

In  darkness  as  a  dead  man  out  of  sight ; 

And  none  remains,  not  one,  that  I  should  tell 

To  him  mine  evil  plight 

This  bitter  night. 

I  will  make  fast  my  door 

That  hollow  friends  may  trouble  me  no  more. 

"  Friend,  open  to  Me." — Who  is  this  that  calls  ? 

Nay,  I  am  deaf  as  are  my  walls : 

Cease  crying,  for  I  will  not  hear 

Thy  cry  of  hope  or  fear. 

Others  were  dear, 

Others  forsook  me  :  what  art  thou  indeed 

That  I  should  heed 

Thy  lamentable  need  ? 

Hungry  should  feed, 

Or  stranger  lodge  thee  here  ? 

"  Friend,  my  Feet  bleed  : 

Open  thy  door  to  Me  and  comfort  Me." 

I  will  not  open,  trouble  me  no  more. 

Go  on  thy  way  footsore, 

I  will  not  rise  and  open  unto  thee. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

"  Then  is  it  nothing  to  thee  ?  Open,  sec 

Who  stands  to  plead  with  thee. 

Open,  lest  I  should  pass  thee  by,  and  thou 

One  day  entreat  My  Face 
And  howl  for  grace, 
And  I  be  deaf  as  thou  art  now. 
Open  to  Me."' 

Then  I  cried  out  upon  him  :  Cease, 

Leave  me  in  peace  : 

Fear  not  that  I  should  crave 

Aught  thou  mayst  have. 

Leave  me  in  peace,  yea  trouble  me  no  more, 

Lest  I  arise  and  chase  thee  from  my  door. 

What,  shall  I  not  be  let 

Alone,  that  thou  dost  vex  me  yet  ? 

But  all  night  long  that  voice  spake  urgently  : 

11  Open  to  Me." 

Still  harping  in  mine  cars : 

«  Rise,  let  Me  in." 

Pleading  with  tears  : 

"  Open  to  Me  that  I  may  come  to  thee." 

While  the  dew  dropped,  while  the  dark  hours  were 

cold : 
"  My  Feet  bleed,  see  My  Face, 
See  My  Hands  bleed  that  bring  thee  grace, 
My  Heart  doth  bleed  for  thee, 
Open  to  Me." 

So  till  the  break  of  day  : 

Then  died  away 

That  voice,  in  silence  as  of  sorrow  : 


132  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI 

Then  footsteps  echoing  like  a  sigh 

Passed  me  by, 

Lingering  footsteps  slow  to  pass. 

On  the  morrow 

I  saw  upon  the  grass 

Each  footprint  marked  in  blood,  and  on  my  door 

The  mark  of  blood  for  evermore. 


ROBERT  STEM  EX  HA  WKER. 


I.XXVI. 
THE   SIGNALS   OF   LEVI. 


he  Rabbins  ruled  that  the  daily  oblation  was  never  to  begin  until  the 
Signal  of  Levi  was  heard ;  and  a  Levite,  placed  on  the  roof  of 
the  Temple  to  watch  the  sky,  blew  with  his  trumpet  when  the  day 
had  so  far  dawned  that  he  could  see  Hebron,  a  city  on  the  heights 
where  John  the  Baptist  was  afterwards  born. 


SIGNAL   THE    FIRST. 

There  is  light  on  Hebron  now  : 
Hark  to  the  trumpet  din  ! 

Day  dawns  on  Hebron's  brow, 
Let  the  sacrifice  begin. 

Hear  ye  the  gathering  sound  ? 

How  the  lute  and  harp  rejoice, 
'Mid  the  roar  of  oxen  bound, 

And  the  lamb's  beseeching  voice. 

This  day  both  prince  and  priest 
Will  hold  at  Salem's  shrine 

A  high  and  haughty  feast  . 
Of  flesh  and  the  ruddy  wine. 


I  j  4  R  OBER  T  STEPHEN  HA  WKER. 

For  a  perilous  hour  is  fled, 
And  the  fear  is  vain  at  last, 

Though  foretold  by  sages  dead, 
And  sworn  by  the  Prophets  past. 

They  said  that  a  mortal  birth 
E'en  now  would  a  name  unfold 

That  should  rule  the  wide,  wide  earth, 
And  quench  the  thrones  of  old. 

But  no  sound,  nor  voice,  nor  word, 
The  tale  of  travail  brings  ; 

Xot  an  infant  cry  is  heard 
In  the  palaces  of  kings. 

Blossom  and  branch  are  bare 

On  Jesse's  stately  stem  : 
So  they  bid  swart  Edom  wear 

Fallen  Israel's  diadem. 

Flow  they  throng  the  cloistered  ground 
'Mid  Judah's  shame  and  sin  : 

Hark  to  the  trumpet  sound 
Let  the  sacrifice  begin. 


SIGNAL   THE    SECOND. 

There  is  light  on  Hebron's  towers, 
Day  dawns  o'er  Jordan's  stream, 

And  it  floats  where  Bethlehem's  bowers 
Of  the  blessed  morning  dream. 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER. 

Yet  it  wakes  no  kingly  halls, 
It  cleaves  no  purple  room  ; 

The  soft  calm,  radiance  falls 
On  a  cavern's  vaulted  gloom. 


But  there,  where  the  oxen  rest 
When  the  weary  day  is  done, 

How  the  maiden-mother's  breast 
Thrills  with  her  awful  Son  ! 


A  cave  where  the  fatlings  roam, 
By  the  ruddy  heifer  trod, 

Yea  !  the  mountain's  rifted  home 
Is  the  birthplace  of  a  God  ! 


This  is  he  !  the  mystic  birth 
By  the  sign  and  voice  foretold  ; 

He  shall  rule  the  wide,  wide  earth, 
And  quench  the  thrones  of  old. 


The  child  of  Judah's  line, 
The  son  of  Abraham's  fame  : 

Arise,  ye  lands  !  and  shine 
With  the  blessed  Jesu's  name. 

This  is  the  promised  dawn  : 
So  fades  the  night  of  sin  \ 

Lo  !  the  gloom  of  death  is  gone, 
Let  the  sacrifice  begin. 


1  JD 


1 36  ROBERT  STEPHEN  HA  1VKER. 


SIGNAL    THE   THIRD. 

"  Ho  !  watchman  !  what  of  the  night  ? 

Tell,  Christian  soldier,  tell ; 
Are  Hebron's  towers  in  sight  ? 

Hast  thou  watched  and  warded  well  ?  " 

14  Yea ;  we  have  paced  the  wall 

Till  the  day-star's  glimmering  birth  ; 

And  we  breathed  our  trumpet-call 
When  the  sunlight  walked  the  earth." 

"What  sawest  thou  with  the  dawn? 

Say,  Christian  warder,  say ; 
When  the  mists  of  night  were  gone, 

And  the  hills  grew  soft  with  day  ?  n 

"  We  beheld  the  morning  swell 

Bright  o'er  the  eastern  sea; 
Till  the  rushing  sunbeams  fell 

Where  the  westward  waters  be. 

11  City  and  bulwark  lay 

Rich  with  the  orient  blaze, 
And  rocks,  at  the  touch  of  day, 

Gave  out  a  sound  of  praise. 

"  No  hill  remained  in  cloud, 
There  lurked  no  darkling  glen  ; 

And  the  voice  of  God  was  loud 
Upon  every  tongue  of  men. 


ROBERT  STEPHEN  HA  WKER.  157 

There  shall  never  more  be  night 

With  this  eternal  sun  ; 
There  be  Hebrons  many  in  sight, 

And  the  sacrifice  is  done." 


1 3S  JEREMY  TA  YL  OR. 


LXXVIL 

CHRIST'S  COMING  TO  JERUSALEM  IN  TRIUMPH. 

Lord,  come  away  : 
Why  dost  thou  stay  ? 
Thy  road  is  ready  ;  and  thy  paths,  made  straight, 

With  longing  expectation  wait 
The  consecration  of  thy  beauteous  feet. 
Ride  on  triumphantly  :  behold  we  lay 
Our  lusts  and  proud  wills  in  thy  way. 
Hosanna  !  welcome  to  our  hearts  !  Lord,  here 
Thou  hast  a  temple  too,  and  full  as  dear 
As  that  of  Sion,  and  as  full  of  sin  : 
Nothing  but  thieves  and  robbers  dwell  therein. 
Enter,  and  chase  them  forth,  and  cleanse  the  floor; 
Crucify  them,  that  they  may  never  more 
Profane  that  holy  place 

Where  thou  hast  chose  to  set  thy  face ; 
And  then  if  our  stiff  tongues  shall  be 
Mute  in  the  praises  of  thy  deity, 

The  stones  out  of  the  temple-wall 
Shall  cry  aloud  and  call 
Hosanna  !  and  thy  glorious  footsteps  greet. 


: 


FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE.  139 


LXXVIIL 

FAITH    AND    SIGHT. 

IN    THE    LATTER    DAYS. 
"  I  prae  :  sequar." 

Thou  say'st,  "  Take  up  thy  cross, 

O  Man,  and  follow  me  : " 
The  night  is  black,  the  feet  are  slack, 

Yet  we  would  follow  thee. 

But  O,  dear  Lord,  we  cry, 

That  we  thy  face  could  see  ! 
Thy  blessed  face  one  moment's  space — 

Then  might  we  follow  thee  ! 

Dim  tracts  of  time  divide 

Those  golden  days  from  me  ; 
Thy  voice  comes  strange  o'er  years  of  change 

How  can  I  follow  thee  ? 

Comes  faint  and  far  thy  voice 

From  vales  of  Galilee  ; 
Thy  vision  fades  in  ancient  shades ; 

How  should  we  follow  thee  ? 


i4o         FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 

Unchanging  law  binds  all, 
And  Nature  all  we  see  : 

Thou  art  a  star,  far  off,  too  far, 
Too  far  to  follow  thee  ! 


— Ah,  sense-bound  heart  and  blind  ! 

Is  nought  but  what  we  see  ? 
Can  time  undo  what  once  was  true  \ 

Can  we  not  follow  thee  ? 


Is  what  we  trace  of  law 

The  whole  of  God's  decree  ? 

Does  our  brief  span  grasp  Nature's  plan, 
And  bid  not  follow  thee  ? 


O  heavy  cross — of  faith 
In  what  we  cannot  see  ! 

As  once  of  yore,  thyself  restore 
And  help  to  follow  thee  ! 


If  not  as  once  thou  cam'st 

In  true  humanity, 
Come  yet  as  guest  within  the  breast 

That  burns  to  follow  thee. 


Within  our  heart  of  hearts 

In  nearest  nearness  be  : 
Set  up  thy  throne  within  thine  own  : — 

Go,  Lord  :  we  follow  thee. 


ROBER  T  HER  RICK.  1 4  , 


LXXIX 
A  THANKSGIVING  TO  GOD  FOR  HIS  HOUSE. 

Lord,  Thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 

Wherein  to  dwell ; 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

Is  weather-proof, 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry  ; 
Where  Thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 

Hast  set  a  guard 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me  while  I  sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate, 

Both  void  of  state  : 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  th'  poor, 
Who  thither  come  and  freely  get 

Good  words  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlour,  so  my  hall 

And  kitchen's  small : 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  litde  bin, 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread 

Unchipped,  unQead ; 
Some  little  sticks  of  thorn  or  brier 

Make  me  a  fire, 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit, 

And  glow  like  it. 


1 4 2  ROBERT  HERRICK. 

Lord,  I  confess  too,  when  I  dine, 

The  pulse  is  thine, 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  thee  ; 
The  worts,  the  purslane,  and  the  mess 

Of  water-cress, 
Which  of  thy  kindness  Thou  has  sent ; 

And  my  content 
Makes  those,  and  my  beloved  beet, 

To  be  more  sweet. 
Tis  Thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink, 

Spiced  to  the  brink. 
Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 

That  soils  my  land, 
And  giv'st  me,  for  my  bushel  sown, 

Twice  ten  for  one  : 
Thou  mak'st  my  teeming  hen  to  lay 

Her  egg  each  day  ; 
Besides  my  healthful  ewes  to  bear 

Me  twins  each  year ; 
The  while  the  conduits  of  my  kine 

Run  cream,  for  wine. 
All  these,  and  better  Thou  dost  send 

Me,  to  this  end, 
That  I  should  render,  for  my  part, 

A  thankful  heart, 
Which,  fired  with  incense,  I  resign 

As  wholly  thine ; 
But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be, 

My  Christ,  by  thee. 


KlCII.ua)  WATSON  GILL 


LXXX. 

A  MADONNA  OF  FRA  LIPPO  LI  PPL 

No  heavenly  maid  we  here  behold, 
Though  round  her  brow  a  ring  of  gold  ; 
This  Baby,  solemn-eyed  and  sweet, 
Is  human  all  from  head  to  feet. 

Together  close  her  palms  are  prest 
In  worship  of  that  Godly  Guest : 
But  glad  her  heart  and  unafraid 
While  on  her  neck  His  hand  is  laid. 

Two  children,  happy,  laughing,  gay, 
Uphold  the  little  Child  in  play  : 
Not  flying  angels  these,  what  though 
Four  wings  from  their  four  shoulders  grow. 

Fra  Lippo,  we  have  learned  from  thee 
A  lesson  of  Humanity  : 
To  every  mother's  heart  forlorn, 
In  every  house  the  Christ  is  born. 


144  LEWIS  MORRIS. 


LXXXI. 

BEHIND   THE   VEIL. 

I  paced  along 
The  dim  cathedral  wrapped  in  reverend  gloom ; 
I  heard  the  sweet  child's  song 
Spring  upwards  like  a  fountain ;  and  the  boom 
Of  the  tempestuous  organ-music  swell ; 
The  hushed  low  voices,  and  the  silvery  bell ; 
The  incense-laden  air ;  the  kneeling  throng  : 
I  knew  them  all,  and  seemed  to  hear  the  cry 
Of  countless  myriads,  rising  deep  and  strong, — 
Help  us  !  we  faint,  we  die. 
Our  knees  are  weak,  our  eyes  are  blind ; 
We  seek  what  we  shall  never  find. 
Show  but  Thy  face,  and  we  are  thine, 
Unknown,  Ineffable,  Divine ! 

I  heard  the  loud 
Muezzin  from  the  slender  minaret  call 
To  prayer,  to  prayer  ;  and  lo  !  the  busy  crowd, 
Merchant  and  prince  and  water-carrier,  all 
Turned  from  the  world,  and,  rapt  in  worship,  knelt, 
Facing  the  holy  city  ;  and  I  felt 
That  from  those  myriads  kneeling,  prostrate,  bowed, 
A  low  moan  rises  to  the  throne  on  high, — 
Not  shut  out  quite  by  error's  thickest  cloud, — 
Help  us !  we  faint,  we  die. 


LEWIS  MORRIS,  145 

Our  knees  are  weak,  our  eyes  are  blind; 
We  seek  what  we  shall  never  find. 
Show  but  Thy  face,  and  we  arc  thine, 
Unknown,  Ineffable,  Divine. 

I  stood  before 
The  glaring  temples  on  the  burning  plain  ; 
I  heard  the  hideous  roar 
Rise  to  the  stars  to  drown  the  shrieks  of  pain, 
What  time  the  murderous  idol  swept  along. 
I  listened  to  the  innocent,  mystic  song, 
Breathed  to  the  jewelled  Lotus  evermore, 
In  the  elder  lands,  through  the  ages,  like  a  sigh, 
And  heard  in  low,  sweet  chant,  and  hateful  roar, — 
Help  us  !  we  faint,  we  die. 
Our  knees  are  weak,  our  eyes  are  blind , 
We  seek  what  we  shall  never  find. 
Show  but  Thy  face,  and  we  are  thine, 
Unknown,  Ineffable,  Divine  ! 

Ay;  everywhere 
Echoes  the  same  exceeding  bitter  cry. 
Yet  can  the  Father  bear 
To  hide  his  presence  from  the  children's  eye ; 
Lets  loose  on  good  and  bad  the  plague  and  sword; 
And  though  wrong  triumph  answers  not  a  word  ? 
Only  deep  down  in  the  heart  doth  he  declare 
His  constant  presence;  there,  though  the  outward  sky 
Be  darkened,  shines  a  little  speck  of  fair, — 
A  light  which  cannot  die. 
Though  knees  be  weak,  and  eyes  be  blind  ; 
Though  we  may  seek,  and  never  find  ; 
Here  doth  his  hidden  glory  shine, 
Unknown,  Ineffable,  Divine. 
n 


146  FREDERICK  W.  IE  MYERS. 


LXXXII. 
SAINT  JOHN  THE  BAPTIST. 

<s  And  blessed  is  he,  whosoever  shall  not  be  offended  in  me." 

0  Jesus,  if  one  minute,  if  one  hour 
Thou  wouldst  come  hitherward  and  speak  with  John  ! 
Nay,  but  be  present  only,  nay,  but  come  : 
And  I  shall  look,  and  as  I  look  on  Thee 
Find  in  thine  eyes  the  answer  and  the  end. 

And  I  am  he  who  once  in  Nazareth, 
A  child,  nor  knowing  yet  the  prophet's  woe, 
In  childly  fashion  sought  thee,  and  even  then 
Perceived  a  mute  withdrawal,  open  eyes 
That  drooped  not  for  caressing,  brows  that  knew 
Dominion,  and  the  babe  already  king. 

Ah,  Mary,  but  thou  also,  thou  as  I, 
With  eager  tremulous  humilities, 
With  dumb  appeal  and  tears  that  dared  not  flow, 
Hast  laid  thy  loving  arms  about  the  boy, 
And  clasped  him  wistfully  and  felt  him  far. 

And  ever  as  I  grew  his  loveliness 
Grew  with  me,  and  the  yearning  turned  to  pain. 
Then  said  I, — "  Nay,  my  friends,  no  need  is  now 
For  John  to  tarry  with  you ;  I  have  seen, 

1  have  known  him  ;  I  go  hence,  and  all  alone 
I  carry  Jesus  with  me  till  I  die." 

And  that  same  day,  being  past  the  Passover, 
I  gat  me  to  the  desert,  and  stayed  to  see 


FREDERICK  11'.  If.  MVER&  147 

Joseph  and  Mary  holding  each  a  hand 

Of  one  that  followed  meekly  ;  and  I  was  gone, 

And  with  strange  beasts  in  the  great  wilderness 

I  laid  me,  fearing  nothing,  and  hardly  knew 

On  what  rough  meat  in  what  unwonted  ways 

I  throve,  or  how  endured  the  frost  and  fire ; 

But  moaned  and  carried  in  my  heart  for  him 

A  first  and  holy  passion,  boy  for  boy, 

And  loved  the  hills  that  looked  on  Nazareth, 

And  every  fount  that  pours  upon  the  plain. 


Then  once  with  trembling  knees  and  heart  afire 

I  ran,  I  sought  him  :  but  my  Lord  at  home 

Bright  in  the  full  face  of  the  dawning  day, 

Stood  at  his  carpentry,  and  azure  air 

Inarched  him,  scattered  with  the  glittering  green  : 

I  saw  him  standing,  I  saw  his  face,  I  saw 

His  even  eyebrows  over  eyes  grey-blue, 

From  whence  with  smiling  there  looked  out  on  me 

A  welcome  and  a  wonder, — "  Mine  so  soon? " — 

Ah  me,  how  sweet  and  unendurable 

Was  that  confronting  beauty  of  the  boy  ! 

Jesus,  thou  knowest  I  had  no  answer  then, 

But  leapt  without  a  word,  and  flung  away, 

And  dared  not  think  thereof,  and  looked  no  more. 

And  after  that  with  wonder  rose  in  me 
Strange  speech  of  early  prophets,  and  a  tale 
First  learnt  and  last  forgotten,  song  that  fell 
With  worship  from  the  lonely  Israelites, 
Simeon  and  Anna,  for  these  twain  as  one 
Fast  by  the  altar  and  in  the  courts  of  God 
Led  a  long  age  in  fair  expectancy. 


1^3  FREDERICK  IV.  II.  MYERS. 

For  all  about  them  swept  the  heedless  folk, 

Unholy  folk  and  market  merchandise, 

They  each  from  each  took  courage,  and  with  prayer 

Made  ready  for  the  coming  of  a  King. 

So,  when  the  waves  of  Xoe  on  forest  and  hill 

Ran  ruinous,  and  all  herbs  had  lost  the  life 

Of  greenness  and  the  memory  of  air, 

The  cedar-trees  alone  on  Lebanon 

Spread  steadfastly  invulnerable  arms. 


That  was  no  sleep  when  clear  the  vision  came, 

Bright  in  the  night  and  truer  than  the  day  : — 

For  there  with  brows  newborn  and  locks  that  flew 

Was  Adam,  and  his  eyes  remembered  God  ; 

And  Eve,  already  fallen,  already  in  woe, 

Knowing  a  lovelier  promise  for  the  pain  ; 

And  after  these,  unknown,  unknowable, 

The  grave  gigantic  visage  of  dead  men, 

With  looks  that  are  not  ours,  with  speech  to  say 

That  no  man  dares  interpret ;  then  I  saw 

A  maiden  such  as  countrymen  afield 

Greet  reverently,  and  love  her  as  they  see ; 

And  after  that  a  boy  with  face  so  fair, 

With  such  a  glory  and  a  wonder  in  it, 

I  grieved  to  find  him  born  upon  the  earth 

To  man's  life  and  the  heritage  of  sin ; 

And  last  of  all  that  Mary  whom  I  knew 

Stood  with  such  parted  lips  and  face  aglow, 

As  long-since  when  the  angel  came  to  her  • 

And  all  these  pointed  forward,  and  I  knew 

That  each  was  prophet  and  singer  and  sire  and  seer, 

That  each  was  priest  and  mother  and  maid  and  king, 


J'REDl'RfCK  IT.  H.  MYERS. 

With  longing  for  the  babe  of  Nazareth, 

For  that  man-child  who  should  be  born  and  reign. 

And  once  again  I  saw  him,  in  latter  days, 
Fraught  with  a  deeper  meaning,  for  he  came 
To  my  baptizing,  and  the  infinite  air 
Blushed  on  his  coming,  and  all  the  earth  was  still  ; 
Gently  he  spake;  I  answered;  God  from  heaven 
Called,  and  I  hardly  heard  him,  such  a  love 
Streamed  in  that  orison  from  man  to  man. 
Then  shining  from  his  shoulders  either-way 
Fell  the  flood  Jordan,  and  his  kingly  eyes 
Looked  in  the  east,  and  star-like  met  the  sun. 
Once  in  no  manner  of  similitude, 
And  twice  in  thunderings  and  thrice  in  flame, 
The  Highest  ere  now  hath  shown  him  secretly ; 
But  when  from  heaven  the  visible  Spirit  in  air 
Came  verily,  lighted  on  him,  was  alone, 
Then  knew  I,  then  I  said  it,  then  I  saw 
God  in  the  voice  and  glory  of  a  man. 


And  one  will  say,  "  And  wilt  thou  not  forget 
The  unkindly  king  that  hath  forgotten  thee?" 
Nay,  I  remember ;  like  my  sires  who  sat 
Faithful  and  stubborn  by  Euphrates'  stream, 
Nor  in  their  age  forgot  Jerusalem, 
Nor  reared  their  children  for  another  joy. 

O  Jesus,  if  thou  knewest,  if  thou  couldst  know, 
How  in  my  heart  through  sleep  and  pain  and  prayer 
Thy  royalty  remaineth ;  how  thy  name 
Falls  from  my  lips  unbidden,  and  the  dark 
Is  thick  with  lying  shades  that  are  not  thou, — 
Couldst  thou  imagine  it,  O  tender  soul  ! 


i50 


FREDERICK  IF.  II  MYERS. 


At  least  in  vision  thou  wouldst  come  to  me  \ 
I  should  not  only  hear  of  dumb  that  sing 
And  lame  that  leap  around  thee,  and  all  thy  ways 
Joyful,  and  on  thy  breast  another  John. 

How  should  I  not  remember?     Is  dusk  of  day 
Forgetful,  or  the  winter  of  the  sun  ? 
Have  these  another  glory  ?  or  whom  have  I 
In  all  the  .world  but  Jesus  for  my  love? 
Whereinsoever  breath  may  rise  and  die 
Their  generations  follow  on,  and  earth 
Each  in  their  kind  replenisheth  anew, 
Only  like  him  she  bears  not  nor  hath  borne 
One  in  her  endless  multitude  of  men. 


JOHN  KEBLE.  151 


LXXXIIL 

CHRIST  IN  THE  GARDEN. 

0  Lord  my  God,  do  thou  thy  holy  will — 

I  will  lie  still — 

1  will  not  stir,  lest  I  forsake  thine  arm, 

And  break  the  charm 
Which  lulls  me,  clinging  to  my  Father's  breast, 
In  perfect  rest. 

Wild  Fancy,  peace  !  thou  must  not  me  beguile 

With  thy  false  smile  : 
I  know  thy  flatteries  and  thy  cheating  ways ; 

Be  silent,  Praise, 
Blind  guide  with  siren  voice,  and  blinding  all 

That  hear  thy  call. 

Come,  Self-devotion,  high  and  pure, 
Thoughts  that  in  thankfulness  endure, 
Though  dearest  hopes  are  faithless  found, 
And  dearest  hearts  are  bursting  round. 
Come,  Resignation,  spirit  meek, 
And  let  me  kiss  thy  placid  cheek, 
And  read  in  thy  pale  eye  serene 
Their  blessing,  who  by  faith  can  wean 
Their  hearts  from  sense,  and  learn  to  love 
God  only,  and  the  joys  above. 


JOHN  KEBLE. 

They  say,  who  know  the  life  divine, 

And  upward  gaze  with  eagle  eyne, 

That  by  each  golden  crown  on  high, 

Rich  with  celestial  jewelry, 

Which  for  our  Lord's  redeemed  is  set, 

There  hangs  a  radiant  coronet, 

All  gemmed  with  pure  and  living  light, 

Too  dazzling  for  a  sinner's  sight, 

Prepared  for  virgin  souls,  and  them 

Who  seek  the  martyr's  diadem. 


Nor  deem,  who  to  that  bliss  aspire, 

Must  win  their  way  through  blood  and  fire. 

The  writhings  of  a  wounded  heart 

Are  fiercer  than  a  foeman's  dart. 

Oft  in  Life's  stillest  shade  reclining, 

In  desolation  unrepining, 

Without  a  hope  on  earth  to  find 

A  mirror  in  an  answering  mind, 

Meek  souls  there  are,  who  little  dream 

Their  daily  strife  an  Angel's  theme, 

Or  that  the  rod  they  take  so  calm 

Shall  prove  in  heaven  a  martyr's  palm. 

And  there  are  souls  that  seem  to  dwell 
Above  this  earth — so  rich  a  spell 
Floats  round  their  steps,  where'er  they  move, 
From  hopes  fulfilled  and  mutual  love. 
Such,  if  on  high  their  thoughts  are  set, 
Nor  in  the  stream  the  source  forget, 
If  prompt  to  quit  the  bliss  they  know, 
Following  the  Lamb  where'er  he  go, 


JOHN  KEBLE. 

By  purest  pleasures  unbeguiled 
To  idolize  or  wife  or  child  j 
Such  wedded  souls  our  God  shall  own 
lor  faultless  virgins  round  his  throne. 

Thus  everywhere  we  find  our  suffering  God, 

And  where  he  trod 
May  set  our  steps  :  the  Cross  on  Calvary 

Uplifted  high 
Learns  on  the  martyr  host,  a  beacon  light 

In  open  fight. 

To  the  still  wrestlings  of  the  lonely  heait 

He  doth  impart 
The  virtue  of  his  midnight  agony, 

When  none  was  nigh, 
Save  God  and  one  good  angel,  to  assuage 

The  tempest's  rage. 

Mortal ;  if  life  smile  on  thee,  and  thou  find 

All  to  thy  mind, 
Think,  who  did  once  from  heaven  to  hell  descend, 

Thee  to  befriend  : 
So  shalt  thou  dare  forego,  at  his  dear  call, 

Thy  best,  thine  all. 

"  0  Father  !  not  my  will,  but  thine  be  done  " — 

So  spake  the  Son. 
Be  this  our  charm,  mellowing  Earth's  ruder  noise 

Of  griefs  and  joys  ; 
That  we  may  cling  for  ever  to  thy  breast 

In  perfect  rest ! 


T54  IVILLIAM  C011TER. 


LXXXIV. 

THE  WAITING  SOUL. 

Breathe  from  the  gentle  south,  O  Lord, 
And  cheer  me  from  the  north  ; 
Blow  on  the  treasures  of  thy  word, 
And  call  the  spices  forth  ! 

I  wish,  thou  knowest,  to  be  resigned, 
And  wait  with  patient  hope ; 
But  hope  delayed  fatigues  the  mind, 
And  drinks  the  spirits  up. 

Help  me  to  reach  the  distant  goal ; 
Confirm  my  feeble  knee ; 
Pity  the  sickness  of  a  soul 
That  faints  for  love  of  thee  ! 

I  seem  forsaken  and  alone, 
I  hear  the  lion  roar ; 
And  every  door  is  shut  but  one, 
And  that  is  Mercy's  door. 

There,  till  the  dear  Deliverer  come, 
1 11  wait  with  humble  prayer  ; 
And  when  he  calls  his  exile  home, 
The  Lord  shall  find  him  there. 


EDMUND  GOSSF..  155 


LXXXV. 

HIE  HEAVENWARD  PILGRIMAGE. 

X*  >T  with  a  choir  of  Angels  without  number, 

And  noise  of  lutes  and  lyres, 
But  gently,  with  the  woven  veil  of  slumber 

Across  thine  awful  fires, 
We  long  to  see  thy  face  serene  and  tender, 

Smile  on  us,  fair  and  sweet, 
Where  round  the  print  of  thorns,  in  thornlike  splendour, 

Transcendent  glories  meet  ! 

We  have  no  hopes  if  Thou  art  near  beside  us, 

And  no  profane  despairs, 
For  all  we  need  is  thy  great  hand  to  guide  us, 

And  lightly  take  our  cares  ; 
For  us  is  no  to-day.  to-night,  to-morrow, 

No  past  time  nor  to  be, 
We  have  no  joy  but  thee,  than  sin  no  sorrow, 

No  life  to  live  but  thee  ! 

The  Cross,  like  pilgrim-warriors,  we  follow, 

Led  by  the  Eastern  star ; 
The  wild  crane  knows  us,  and  the  wandering  swallow, 

Fled  southward  to  Shinar  \ 
All  night  the  single  star  is  bright  above  us, 

We  go  with  weary  feet ; 
For  in  the  end  we  know  are  they  who  love  us, 

And  their  embrace  is  sweet. 


156  EDMUND  GOSSti. 

Most  sweet  of  all,  when  dark  the  way  and  moonless, 

To  feel  a  touch,  a  breath, 
And  know  our  fainting  spirits  are  not  tuneless, 

Our  unseen  goal  not  Death  \ 
To  know  that  Thou,  in  all  the  old,  sweet  fashion, 

Art  near  us  to  sustain  ! 
We  thank  thee,  Lord,  by  all  thy  tears  and  passion, 

By  all  thy  cross  and  pain  ! 

And  when  the  night,  with  all  its  pain,  is  over, 

Across  the  hills  of  spice 
Thyself,  will  m2et  us,  glowing  like  a  lover, 

Before  love's  Paradise ; 
There  are  the  Saints,  with  palms,  and  songs,  and  roses, 

And  better  still  than  all, 
The  long,  long  day  of  Love  that  never  closes, 

Thy  marriage  festival  ! 


SAMUEL   WADJDINGTi  1 57 


LXXXVI 

"CHRIST  IS  NOT  DEAD." 

''Christ  is  not  dead," — So  spake,  in  accents  low, 

He  whom  we  loved,  the  master,  aged  and  sere  : 

He  spake  not  loud,  yet  firm  his  voice  and  clear, 

To  speak  whate'er  he  would  that  we  should  know. 

11  Christ  is  not  dead," — He  spake,  then  paused  as  though 

His  words  were  mightier  than  such  words  appear 

To  him  that  hears  them  with  a  casual  ear, 

Nor  stays  to  heed,  but  hastes  where  he  would  go. 

"  Christ  is  not  dead," — and  yet  he  paused  once  more, 

While  on  his  face  a  holy  rapture  shone, 

As  shines  the  sunlight  on  the  peaceful  shore 

When  ah  the  storm  of  life  is  past  and  gone  ; 

"  Christ  is  not  dead,  while  in  your  hearts,"  he  cried, 

"  The  lesson  of  his  love  doth  still  abide." 


158  RICHARD   WATSON  GILDER, 


LXXXVII. 

MORNING  AND  NIGHT. 

The  mountain  that  the  morn  doth  kiss 
Glad  greets  its  shining  neighbour  : 

Lord  !  heed  the  homage  of  our  bliss, — 
The  incense  of  our  labour. 

Now  the  long  shadows  eastward  creep, 

The  golden  sun  is  setting  : 
Take,  Lord !  the  worship  of  our  sleep,— 

The  praise  of  our  forgetting. 


JOHN  AUSTIN.  159 


LXXXVI1L 

BLEST  BE  THY  LOVE,   DEAR  LORD. 

Blest  be  thy  love,  dear  Lord, 
That  taught  us  this  sweet  way, 
Only  to  love  thee  for  thyself, 
And  for  that  love  obey. 

O  thou,  our  souls'  chief  hope  ! 
We  to  thy  mercy  fly  ; 
Where'er  we  are,  thou  canst  protect, 
Whate'er  we  need,  supply. 

Whether  we  sleep  or  wake, 
To  thee  we  both  resign  ; 
By  night  we  see,  as  well  as  day, 
If  thy  light  on  us  shine. 

Whether  we  live  or  die, 
Both  we  submit  to  thee  ; 
In  death  we  live,  as  well  as  life, 
If  thine  in  death  we  be. 


1 60  A'  ODER  T  STEPHEN  II A  WKER. 


LXXXIX. 
THE  SILENT  TOWER  OF  BOTTREALV 

(The  rugged  heights  that  line  the  seashore  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Tintagel  Castle  and  church  are  crested  with  towers.  Among  these 
that  of  Bottreau  is  without  bells,  and  the  silence  of  this  wild  and 
lonely  churchyard  on  festive  or  solemn  occasions  is  not  a  little 
striking.  The  bells  were  once  shipped  for  this  church,  but  when 
the  vessel  was  within  sight  of  the  tower  the  blasphemy  of  her  cap- 
tain was  punished  in  the  manner  recited.) 

Tintagel  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide  ; 
The  boy  leans  on  his  vessel's  side, 
He  hears  that  sound,  and  dreams  of  home 
Soothe  the  wild  orphan  of  the  foam. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  n 

Thus  saith  their  pealing  chime  : 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

11  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  M 

But  why  are  Bottreau's  echoes  still  ? 

Her  tower  stands  proudly  on  the  hill; 

Vet  the  strange  chough  that  home  hath  found, 

The  lamb  lies  sleeping  on  the  ground. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  ! ;' 

Should  be  her  answering  chime  : 

"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last  !  " 

Should  echo  on  the  blast. 
1  Boscastle. 


ttOBER  T  STEPHEN  HA  WEEK.  1 6 1 

The  ship  rode  down  with  courses  free, 
The  daughter  of  a  distant  sea  : 
Her  sheet  was  loose,  her  anchor  stored, 
The  merry  Bottreau  bells  on  board. 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  n 

Rang  out  Tintagel  chime ; 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

11  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 


The  pilot  heard  his  native  bells 

Hang  on  the  breeze  in  fitful  swells ; 

"  Thank  God,"  with  reverent  brow  he  cried, 

"We  make  the  shore  with  evening's  tide." 

11  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 

It  was  his  marriage  chime  : 

Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 

His  bell  must  ring  at  last. 


"  Thank  God,  thou  whining  knave,  on  land, 
But  thank,  at  sea,  the  steersman's  hand," 
The  captain's  voice  above  the  gale — 
"  Thank  the  good  ship  and  ready  sail." 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 
Sad  grew  the  boding  chime  : 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 
Boomed  heavy  on  the  blast. 

Uprose  that  sea  !  as  if  it  heard 
The  mighty  Master's  signal-word  : 
What  thrills  the  captain's  whitening  lip  ? 
The  death-groans  of  his  sinking  ship. 

12 


1 62  ROBERT  STEPHEN  HA  WKER, 

"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  ! ;J 
Swung  deep  the  funeral  chime  : 
Grace,  mercy,  kindness  past, 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 

Long  did  the  rescued  pilot  tell — 
When  grey  hairs  o'er  his  forehead  fell, 
While  those  around  would  hear  and  weep- 
That  fearful  judgment  of  the  deep. 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  ! " 
He  read  his  native  chime  : 
Youth,  manhood,  old  age  past, 
His  bell  rang  out  at  last. 

Still  when  the  storm  of  Bottreaus  waves 
Is  wakening  in  his  weedy  caves  : 
Those  bells,  that  sullen  surges  hide, 
Peal  their  deep  notes  beneath  the  tide  : 
"  Come  to  thy  God  in  time  !  " 
Thus  saith  the  ocean  chime : 
Storm,  billow,  whirlwind  past, 
"  Come  to  thy  God  at  last !  " 


AC  WILL/A 


xc. 

THE  CHILD  LEANS  OX  ITS  PARENT'S  BREAST 

The  child  leans  on  its  parent's  breast, 
Leaves  there  its  cares,  and  is  at  rest ; 
The  bird  sits  singing  by  his  nest, 

And  tells  aloud 
His  trust  in  God,  and  so  is  blest 

'Neath  every  cloud. 

He  has  no  store,  he  sows  no  seed ; 
Yet  sings  aloud,  and  doth  not  heed ; 
By  flowing  stream  or  grassy  mead 

He  sings  to  shame 
Men  who  forget  in  fear  of  need 

A  Father's  name. 


The  heart  that  trusts  for  ever  sings, 
And  feels  as  light  as  it  had  wings  ; 
A  well  of  peace  within  it  springs  : 

Come  good  or  ill, 
Whate'er  to-day,  to-morrow  brings, 

It  is  His  will ! 


1 64  THOMAS  TORE  LYNCH. 


XCI. 

GRACIOUS  SPIRIT,  DWELL  WITH  ME. 

Gracious  Spirit,  dwell  with  me ; 
I  myself  would  gracious  be, 
And  with  words  that  help  and  heal 
Would  thy  life  in  mine  reveal, 
And  with  actions  bold  and  meek 
Would  for  Christ  my  Saviour  speak. 

Truthful  Spirit,  dwell  with  me, 
I  myself  would  truthful  be, 
And  with  wisdom  kind  and  clear 
Let  thy  life  in  mine  appear, 
And  with  actions  brotherly 
Speak  my  Lord's  sincerity. 

Tender  Spirit,  dwell  with  me ; 
I  myself  would  tender  be, 
Shut  my  heart  up  like  a  flower 
At  temptation's  darksome  hour, 
Open  it  when  shines  the  sun, 
And  His  love  by  fragrance  own. 


Silent  Spirit,  dwell  with  me  ; 
I  myself  would  quiet  be, 


THOMAS  TORE  LYNCH.  165 


Quiet  as  the  growing  blade 
Which  through  earth  its  way  has  made. 
Silently,  like  morning  light, 
Putting  mists  and  chills  to  flight. 

Mighty  Spirit,  dwell  with  me; 
I  myself  would  mighty  be, 
Mighty  so  as  to  prevail 
Where  unaided  man  must  fail, 
Ever  by  a  mighty  hope 
Pressing  on  and  bearing  up. 

Holy  Spirit,  dwell  with  me ; 

I  myself  would  holy  be  ; 

Separate  from  sin,  I  would 

Choose  and  cherish  all  things  good, 

And  whatever  I  can  be 

Give  to  Him  who  gave  me  thee. 


1 66  WILLIAM  DR U3LM0XD. 


XCIL 

THE  NATIVITY  OF  OUR  LORD. 
i. 

THE   ANGELS. 

Run,  shepherds,  run  where  Bethlehem  blest  appears, 
We  bring  the  best  of  news  ;  be  not  dismayed  : 
A  Saviour  there  is  born  more  old  than  years, 
Amidst  heaven's  rolling  heights  this  earth  who  stayed. 

In  a  poor  cottage  inn'd,  a  virgin  maid 
A  weakling  did  him  bear,  who  all  upbears ; 
There  is  he  poorly  swaddled,  in  manger  laid, 
To  whom  too  narrow  swaddlings  are  our  spheres  : 

Run,  shepherds,  run,  and  solemnize  his  birth  ; 
This  is  that  night — no,  day,  grown  great  with  bliss, 
In  which  the  power  of  Satan  broken  is  : 

In  heaven  be  glory,  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 
Thus  singing,  through  the  air  the  angels  swam, 
And  cope  of  stars  re-echoed  the  same. 


WILLIAM  DRUMMOXLK 


II 

THE    SHEPHERDS. 

O  than  the  fairest  day,  thrice  fairer  night  ! 
Night  to  best  days,  in  which  a  sun  doth  rise, 
Of  which  that  golden  eye  which  clears  the  skies 
Is  but  a  sparkling  ray,  a  shadow-light  ! 

And  blessed  ye,  in  silly  pastors'  sight, 
Mild  creatures,  in  whose  warm  crib  now  lies 
That  heaven-sent  youngling,  holy  maid-born  wight, 
Midst,  end,  beginning  of  our  prophecies  : 

Blest  cottage  that  hath  flowers  in  winter  spread, 
Though  withered  !  blessed  grass,  that  hath  the  grace 
To  deck  and  be  a  carpet  to  that  place  ! 

Thus  sang,  unto  the  sounds  of  oaten  reed, 
Before  the  babe,  the  shepherds  bowed  on  knees  ; 
And  springs  ran  nectar,  honey  dropped  from  tree-. 


i68  ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 


XCIII. 
ST.  WENCESLAUS. 

The  snow  lies  deep  throughout  the  n»ght 
O'er  hill,  and  grove,  and  town, 

And  on  its  silvery  mantle  bright 
The  cold  clear  moon  looks  down. 

Heap  up  the  7c-oed,  the  rich  man  cries — 
The  fire  burns  bright  and  warm ; 

Inward  to  Heaven  the  poor  man  sighs, 
And  trembles  at  the  storm. 

There  gently  steals  a  form  of  good, 
Like  one  from  Bethlehem's  shed, 

His  shoulders  bear  a  pile  of  wood, 
A  kingly  crown  his  head. 

King  Wenceslaus,  monarch  mild — 

He  seeks  a  cottage-door ; 
"  Friend  of  the  friendless  "  is  he  styled, 

And  "  father  of  the  poor." 

Help  me,  my  honoured  king  and  lord, 

Then  cried  his  servant  old  \ 
Unless  thou  timely  aid  afford, 

I  sink  benumbed  with  eold. 


ISAAC  WILLIAMS. 

r  faithful  servant ^  said  the  Sai 
Come  on,  and  follow  me; 
Lift  up  thy  heart  without  complaint, 
And  I  will  pray  for  Hue. 

Then  in  his  master's  footsteps  bold, 
He  followed  'mid  the  snow, — 

His  master's  footsteps  'mid  the  cold 
Seemed  with  a  fire  to  glow. 

His  heart  so  chilled  then  waxed  warm, 

The  ice  and  snow  among, 
And  all  throughout  his  aged  form 

A  kindly  warmth  hath  sprung. 

So  burned  within  that  kingly  heart 

With  holy  love  of  God, 
That  there  was  found  a  fire  to  start 

From  footsteps  where  he  trod. 

And  to  that  heart  such  power  was  given 

In  winter's  cold  and  storm, 
Thereat,  as  by  a  fire  from  Heaven, 

The  sick  and  poor  were  warm. 


i :  o  IJENR  Y  II A  R  T  3IILMAN. 


XCIV. 
THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

i. 

Love  thee  ! — oh,  Thou,  the  world's  eternal  sire  ! 
Whose  palace  is  the  vast  infinity, 
Time,  space,  height,  depth,  oh  God  !  are  full  of  thee, 
And  sun-eyed  seraphs  tremble  and  admire. 
Love  thee  ; — but  Thou  art  girt  with  vengeful  fire, 
And  mountains  quake,  and  banded  nations  flee, 
And  terror  shakes  the  wide  unfathomed  sea, 
When  the  heavens  rock  with  thy  tempestuous  ire. 
Oh,  Thou  !  too  vast  for  thought  to  comprehend, 
That  wast  ere  time, — shall  be  when  time  is  o'er ; 
Ages  and  worlds  begin — grow  old — and  end, 
Systems  and  suns  thy  changeless  throne  before, 
Commence  and  close  their  cycles  :  lost,  I  bend 
To  earth  my  prostrate  soul,  and  shudder,  and  adore  ! 


HENRY  HART  MILMAK 


ii. 

Love  thee  ! — oh,  clad  in  human  lowliness, 

In  whom  each  heart  its  mortal  kindred  knows — 

Our  flesh,  our  form,  our  tears,  our  pains,  our  woes, — 

A  fellow-wanderer  o'er  earth's  wilderness  ! 

Love  thee  ! — whose  every  word  but  breathes  to  bless  ! 

Through  thee,  from  long-sealed  lips  glad  language  flows  \ 

The  blind  their  eyes,  that  laugh  with  light,  unclose ; 

And  babes,  unchid,  thy  garment's  hem  caress  : 

I  see  thee,  doomed  by  bitterest  pangs  to  die, 

Up  the  sad  hill,  with  willing  footsteps,   move, 

With  scourge,  and  taunt,  and  wanton  agony, 

While  the  cross  nods,  in  hideous  gloom,  above, 

Though  all— even  there— be  radiant  Deity  ! 

Speechless  I  gaze,  and  my  whole  soul  is  Love  ! 


1 7  2  JOSEPH  ADD  I  SOX, 

XCV. 

AN  ODE  ON  THE  CREATION. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 

And  publishes,  to  ever}7  land, 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale  • 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  • 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice,  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found. 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice  \ 
For  ever  singing  as  they  shine — 
"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine  !  " 


SABINE  BARING-GOULD. 


VI. 
CEDRON'S  WELL. 

The  moon  was  bright,  that  Paschal  night, 
O'er  Cedron's  dark  and  rocky  dell ; 

And  Cedron's  torrent  glancing  bright, 
As  silver  flashed  and  fell. 

The  Saviour  stood,  and  prayed,  "  I  would 
That  those  whom  thou  hast  given  me 

Should  ever  stand,  a  constant  band, 
In  steadfast  Unity. 

"  That  from  the  fold  wherein  I  hold 
The  sheep  I  love,  should  wander  none ; 

As  thou  in  me,  and  I  in  thee, 
They  all  may  be  as  one." 

As  Cedron  flows  from  whence  it  rose 

One  stream  throughout  from  source  to  sea, 

The  Church  in  time  and  every  clime 
Is  one,  and  one  will  be. 

Though  many  a  rill  falls  in  to  fill 

The  shining  river  as  it  glides, 
Yet  none  will  think  to  o'erleap  the  brink, 

Each  in  the  bed  abides. 


[74 


SABINE  BARIXG-GOULD. 


And  all,  the  same,  with  common  aim 
And  common  impulse  onward  flow; 

And  none  rebel,  but  join  to  swell, 
One  stream  as  on  they  go. 


O  keep  us,  Lord,  the  sole  Adored, 
In  unity  assured  with  thee, 

All  one  in  Faith,  all  one  in  Hope, 
And  one  in  Charity. 


. 


.  RY  alio: 


XCYII. 
"I  HAVE  FOUND  PEACE." 

I  have  found  Peace  in  the  bright  earth, 

.And  in  the  sunny  sky  : — 
By  the  low  voice  of  summer  seas, 

And  where  streams  murmur  by. 

I  6nd  it  in  the  quiet  tone 

Of  voices  that  I  love  : 
Ly  the  flickering  of  a  twilight  fire, 

And  in  a  leafless  grove  ! 

I  find  it  in  the  silent  flow 

Of  solitary  thought : 
In  calm  half-meditated  dreams, 

And  reasonings  self-taught  j 

But  seldom  have  I  found  such  peace, 

As  in  the  soul's  deep  joy 
Of  passing  onward  free  from  harm 

Through  every  day's  employ. 

If  gems  we  seek,  we  only  tire, 
And  lift  our  hopes  too  high ; 

The  constant  flowers  that  line  our  way 
Alone  can  satisfy. 


EDWARD  DO  WD  EM 


XCVIII. 

EMMAUSWARD. 

Lord  Christ,  if  thou  art  with  us  and  the?j  eyes 
Are  holden,  while  we  go  sadly  and  say, 
"  We  hoped  it  had  been  he,  and  now  t)-day 
Is  the  third  day,  and  hope  within  us  dies/' 
Bear  with  us,  oh,  our  Master,  thou  art  wise 
And  knowest  our  foolishness  ;  we  do  not  pray, 
"  Declare  thyself,  since  weary  grows  the  way, 
And  faith's  new  burden  hard  upon  us  lies." 
Nay,  choose  thy  time ;  but  ah  !  whoe'er  thou  art, 
Leave  us  not ;  where  have  we  heard  any  voice 
Like  thine  ?     Our  hearts  burn  in  us  as  we  go  ; 
Stay  with  us  ;  break  our  bread ;  so,  for  our  part, 
Ere  darkness  falls  haply  we  may  rejoice, 
Haply  when  day  has  been  far  spent  may  know. 


'  CLOUGII.  177 


IX. 

"0  THOU  WHOSE  IMAGE  IN  THE  SHRIN 

O  Thou  whose  image  in  the  shrine 
Of  human  spirits  dwells  divine  ; 
Which  from  that  precinct  once  conveyed, 
To  be  to  outer  day  displayed, 
Doth  vanish,  part,  and  leave  behind 
Mere  blank  and  void  of  empty  mind, 
Which  wilful  fancy  seeks  in  vain 
With  casual  shapes  to  fill  again  ! 

0  Thou  that  in  our  bosom's  shrine 
Dost  dwell,  unknown  because  divine  ! 

1  thought  to  speak,  I  thought  to  say, 

';  The  light  is  here,"  "  behold  the  way," 
"  The  voice  was  thus/'  and  "  thus  the  word," 
And  "  thus  I  saw,"  and  "that  I  heard,"— 
Eut  from  the  lips  that  half  essayed 
The  imperfect  utterance  fell  unmade. 

0  Thou,  in  that  mysterious  shrine 
Enthroned,  as  I  must  say,  divine  ! 

1  will  not  frame  one  thought  of  what 
Thou  mayest  either  be  or  not. 

I  will  not  prate  of  "  thus  "  and  "  so," 
And  be  profane  with  "  yes  "  and  "  no," 
Enough  that  in  our  soul  and  heart 
Thou,  whatsoe'er  Thou  may'st  be,  art, 
13 


178  ARTHUR  HUGH  C LOUGH. 

Unseen,  secure  in  that  high  shrine, 
Acknowledged  present  and  divine, 
I  will  not  ask  some  upper  air, 
Some  future  day  to  place  Thee  there ; 
Nor  say,  nor  yet  deny,  such  men 
And  women  saw  Thee  thus  and  then  : 
Thy  name  was  such,  and  there  or  here 
To  him  or  her  Thou  didst  appear. 

Do  only  Thou  in  that  dim  shrine, 
Unknown  or  known,  remain,  divine ; 
There,  or  if  not,  at  least  in  eyes 
That  scan  the  fact  that  round  them  lies, 
The  hand  to  sway,  the  judgment  guide, 
In  sight  and  sense  Thyself  divide  : 
Be  Thou  but  there, — in  soul  and  heart, 
I  will  not  ask  to  feel  Thou  art. 


HORATIVS  BONAR.  179 


C. 
LM  ME,  MY  GOD,  AND  KEEP  ME  CALM." 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 

While  these  hot  breezes  blow ; 
Be  like  the  night-dew's  cooling  balm 

Upon  earth's  fevered  brow  ! 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 

Soft  resting  on  thy  breast ; 
Soothe  me  with  holy  hymn  and  psalm, 

And  bid  my  spirit  rest. 

Calm  me,  my  God,  and  keep  me  calm, 

Let  thine  outstretched  wing 
Be  like  the  shade  of  Elim's  palm 

Beside  her  desert-spring. 

Yes ;  keep  me  calm,  though  loud  and  rude 

The  sounds  my  ear  that  greet  \ 
Calm  in  the  closet's  solitude, 

Calm  in  the  bustling  street ; 

Calm  in  the  hour  of  buoyant  health, 

Calm  in  my  hour  of  pain  \ 
Calm  in  my  poverty  or  wealth. 

Calm  in  mv  loss  or  gain  : 


i  So  110 R A  TIUS  BONAR. 

Calm  in  the  sufferance  of  wrong, 
Like  him  who  bore  my  shame ; 

Calm  'mid  the  threatening,  taunting  throng, 
Who  hate  thy  holy  name  \ 

Calm  when  the  great  world's  news  with  power 

My  listening  spirit  stir  : 
Let  not  the  tidings  of  the  hour 

E'er  find  too  fond  an  ear : 

Calm  as  the  ray  of  sun  or  star 

Which  storms  assail  in  vain, 
Moving  unruffled  through  earth's  war 

Th'  eternal  calm  to  gain. 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 


CI. 
THE  CORONET. 

When  for  the  thorns  with  which  I  long,  too  long, 

With  many  a  piercing  wound, 

My  Saviour's  head  have  crowned, 
I  seek  with  garlands  to  redress  that  wrong  : 
Through  every  garden,  every  mead, 

I  gather  flowers,  my  fruits  are  only  flowers, 

Dismantling  all  the  fragrant  towers 
That  once  adorned  my  shepherdess's  head : 
And  now,  when  I  have  summed  up  all  my  store, 

Thinking — so  I  myself  deceive — 

So  rich  a  chaplet  thence  to  weave 
As  never  yet  the  King  of  Glory  wore ; 
Alas  !  I  find  the  Serpent  old, 

That,  twining  in  his  speckled  breast, 
About  the  flowers  disguised,  does  fold 

With  wreaths  of  fame  and  interest. 

Ah,  foolish  man,  that  wouldst  debase  with  them, 

And  mortal  glory,  heaven's  diadem  ! 

But  Thou  who  only  couldst  the  Serpent  tame, 
Either  his  slippery  knots  at  once  untie, 
And  disentangle  all  his  winding  snare, 

Or  shatter,  too,  with  him  my  curious  frame, 
And  let  these  wither  so  that  he  may  die — 
Though  set  with  skill,  and  chosen  out  with  care  ; 

That  they,  while  thou  on  both  their  spoils  dost  tread, 

May  crown  thy  feet  that  could  not  crown  thy  head. 


1 82      ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BRO  WXIXG. 


CII. 
CHORUS  OF  EDEN  SPIRITS. 

(From  "  A  Drama  of  Exile.") 

Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  let  your  souls  behind  ycu 

Turn,  gently  moved  ! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to  find  you, 

O  lost,  beloved  ! 
Through  the  thick-shielded  and  strong-marshalled  angels. 

They  press  and  pierce  : 
Our  requiems  follow  fast  on  our  evangels, — 

Voice  throbs  in  verse. 
We  are  but  orphaned  spirits  left  in  Eden 

A  time  ago : 
God  gave  us  golden  cups,  and  we  were  bidden 

To  feed  you  so. 
But  now  our  right  hand  hath  no  cup  remaining, 

No  work  to  do, 
The  mystic  hydromel  is  spilt,  and  staining 

The  whole  earth  through. 
Most  ineradicable  stains,  for  showing 

(Not  interfused  !) 
That  brighter  colours  were  the  world's  foregoing, 

Than  shall  be  used. 
Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  ye  shall  hearken  surely 

For  years  and  years, 
The  noise  beside  you,  dripping  coldly,  purely, 

Of  spirits'  tears. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.      18 

The  yearning  to  a  beautiful  denied  you, 

Shall  strain  your  powers  : 
Ideal  sweetness  shall  over-glide  you, 

Resumed  from  ours. 
In  all  your  music,  our  pathetic  minor 

Your  cars  shall  cross ; 
And  all  good  gifts  shall  mind  you  of  diviner, 

With  sense  of  loss. 
We  shall  be  near  you  in  your  poet-languors 

And  wild  extremes, 
What  time  ye  vex  the  desert  with  vain  angers, 

Or  mock  with  dreams. 
And  when  upon  you,  weary  after  roaming, 

Death's  seal  is  put, 
By  the  foregone  ye  shall  discern  the  coming, 

Through  eyelids  shut. 


i 


1 84  HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


CUT. 

THE  NIGHT. 

(John  iii.  2.) 

Through  that  pure  virgin-shrine, 
That  sacred  veil  drawn  o'er  thy  glorious  noon, 
That  men  might  look  and  live,  as  glow-worms  shine 
And  face  the  moon, 
Wise  Nicodemus  saw  such  light 
As  made  him  know  his  God  by  night. 

Most  ble^t  believer  he, 
Who  in  that  land  of  darkness  and  blind  eyes, 
Thy  long-expected  healing  wings  could  see 
When  thou  didst  rise  ! 
And,  what  can  never  more  be  done, 
Did  at  midnight  speak  with  the  sun  ! 

O  who  will  tell  me  where 
He  found  thee  at  that  dead  and  silent  hour  ? 
What  hallowed  solitary  ground  did  bear 
So  rare  a  flower, 

Within  whose  sacred  leaves  did  lie 

The  fulness  of  the  Deity? 


HENRY  win; II AX. 

No  mercy  seat  of  gold, 
dead  and  dusty  (hem!),  nor  carved  stone, 

But  his  own  living  works  did  my  Lord  hold 
And  lodge  alone, 
Where  trees  and  herbs  did  watch  and  pc 
And  wonder,  while  the  Jews  did  sle 

Dear  night  !  this  world's  defeat ; 
The  stop  to  busy  fools  ;  care's  check  and  curb 
The  day  of  spirits ;  my  soul's  calm  retreat 
Which  none  disturb  ; 
Christ's  progress,  and  his  prayer-time, — 
The  hours  to  which  high  heaven  doth  chime; 

God's  silent,  searching  flight ; 
When  my  Lord's  head  is  filled  with  dew,  and  all 
His  locks  are  wet  with  the  clear  drops  of  night ; 
His  still,  soft  call ; 
His  knocking  time  ;  the  soul's  dumb  watch, 
When  spirits  their  fair  kindred  catch ; 

Were  my  loud,  evil  days 
Calm  and  unhaunted  as  is  thy  dark  tent, 
Whose  peace  but  by  some  angel's  wing  or  voice 
Is  seldom  rent, 
Then  I  in  heaven  all  the  long  year 
Would  keep,  and  never  wander  here. 

But  living  where  the  sun 
Doth  all  things  wake,  and  where  all  mix  and  tire 
Themselves  and  others,  I  consent  and  run 
To  every  mire  ; 

And  by  this  world's  ill-guiding  light, 

Err  more  than  I  can  do  by  night. 


D 


1 36  HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

There  is  in  God,  some  say, 
A  deep  but  dazzling  darkness ;  as  men  here 
Say  it  is  late  and  dusky,  because  they 
See  not  all  clear  : 
O  for  that  night !  where  I  in  him 
Might  live  invisible  and  dim  ! 


GEORGE  WITHER, 


CIV. 
A  ROCKING  HYMN. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep  ;  what  ails  my  dear  ? 

What  ails  my  darling  thus  to  cry  ? 
Ee  still,  my  child,  and  lend  thine  ear, 

To  hear  me  sing  thy  lullaby. 
My  pretty  lamb,  forbear  to  weep, 

ill,  my  dear;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Thou  blessed  soul,  what  canst  thou  fear? 

What  thing  to  thee  can  mischief  do  ? 
Thy  God  is  now  thy  father  dear ; 

His  holy  spouse  thy  mother  too. 
Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep  ; 
Be  still,  my  babe  \  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Though  thy  conception  was  in  sin, 
A  sacred  bathing  thou  hast  had ; 

And  though  thy  birth  unclean  hath  been, 
A  blameless  babe  thou  now  art  made. 

Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  dear;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

While  thus  thy  lullaby  I  sing, 

For  thee  great  blessings  ripening  be; 

Thine  eldest  brother  is  a  king, 

And  hath  a  kingdom  bought  for  thee. 


iSS  GEORGE   WITHER. 

Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep  ; 
Be  still,  my  babe  \  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep,  and  nothing  fear  ; 

For,  whosoever  thee  offends, 
By  thy  protector  threatened  are, 

And  God  and  angels  are  thy  friends 
Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep ; 
Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


When  God  with  us  was  dwelling  here, 
In  little  babes  he  took  delight  \ 

Such  innocents  as  thou,  my  dear, 
Are  ever  precious  in  his  sight. 

Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep; 

Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

A  little  infant  once  was  he, 

And  strength  in  weakness  then  was  laid 
Upon  his  virgin  mother's  knee 

That  power  to  thee  might  be  conveyed. 
Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


The  King  of  kings,  when  he  was  born, 
Had  not  so  much  for  outward  ease ; 

By  him  such  dressings  wrere  not  worn, 
Nor  such  like  swaddling  clothes  as  these. 

Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep ; 

Be  still,  my  babe ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


GEORGE  WITHER. 

Within  a  manger  lodged  thy  Lord, 

Where  oxen  lay,  and  asses  fed  ; 

Warm  rooms  we  do  to  thee  afford, 

An  easy  cradle  or  a  bed. 
Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep  : 
Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

The  wants  that  he  did  then  sustain 

Have  purchased  wealth,  my  babe,  for  thee ; 

And  by  his  torments,  and  his  pain, 
Thy  rest  and  ease  secured  be. 

My  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep; 

Ee  still,  my  babe  ;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

Thou  hast  yet  more  to  perfect  this, 

A  promise  and  an  earnest  got 
Of  gaining  everlasting  bliss, 

Though  thou,  my  babe,  perceiv'st  it  not. 
Sweet  baby,  then,  forbear  to  weep ; 
Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 


1 90  SM  JOHN  BE  A  UMONT. 


CV. 

THE    EPIPHAXY. 

Fair  eastern  star,  that  art  ordained  to  run 

Before  the  sages,  to  the  rising  sun, 

Here  cease  thy  course,  and  wonder  that  the  cloud 

Of  this  poor  stable  can  thy  Maker  shroud  : 

Ye,  heavenly  bodies,  glory  to  be  bright, 

And  are  esteemed  as  ye  are  rich  in  light ; 

But  here  on  earth  is  taught  a  different  way, 

Since  under  this  low  roof  the  highest  lay. 

Jerusalem  erects  her  stately  towers, 

Displays  her  windows,  and  adorns  her  bowers ; 

Yet  there  thou  must  not  cast  a  trembling  spark  ; 

Let  Herod's  palace  still  continue  dark ; 

Each  school  and  synagogue  thy  force  repels, 

There  Pride,  enthroned  in  misty  error,  dwells ; 

The  temple,  where  the  priests  maintain  their  choir, 

Shall  taste  no  beam  of  thy  celestial  fire, 

While  this  weak  cottage  all  thy  splendour  takes  : 

A  joyful  gate  of  every  chink  it  makes. 

Here  shines  no  golden  roof,  no  ivory  stair, 

No  king  exalted  in  a  stately  chair, 

Girt  with  attendants,  or  by  heralds  styled, 

But  straw  and  hay  enwrap  a  speechless  child  ; 

Yet  Sabas's  lords  before  this  babe  unfold 

Their  treasures,  offering  incense,  myrrh,  and  gold. 


SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT.  191 

The  crib  becomes  an  altar  :  therefore  dies 

No  ox  nor  sheep  ;  for  in  their  fodder  lies 

The  Prince  of  Peace,  who,  thankful  for  his  bed, 

Destroys  those  rites  in  which  their  blood  was  shed  : 

The  quintessence  of  earth  he  takes  and  fe 

And  precious  gums  distilled  from  weeping  trees ; 

Rich  metals  and  sweet  odours  now  declare 

The  glorious  blessings  which  his  laws  prepare, 

To  clear  us  from  the  base  and  loathsome  flood 

Of  sense,  and  make  us  fit  for  angels'  food, 

Who  lift  to  God  for  us  the  holy  smoke 

Of  fervent  prayers  with  which  we  him  invoke, 

And  try  our  actions  in  that  searching  fire, 

By  which  the  seraphim  our  lips  inspire : 

No  muddy  dross  pure  minerals  shall  infect, 

We  shall  exhale  our  vapours  up  direct : 

No  storms  shall  cross,  nor  glittering  lights  deface 

Perpetual  sighs  which  seek  a  happy  place. 


192  JOHN  KEBLE. 

CVI. 

ST.  MATTHEW. 

Ye  hermits  blest,  ye  holy  maids, 
The  nearest  heaven  on  earth, 
Who  talk  with  God  in  shadowy  glades, 

Free  from  rude  care  and  mirth ; 
To  whom  some  viewless  teacher  brings 
The  secret  lore  of  rural  things, 
The  moral  of  each  fleeting  cloud  and  gale, 
The  whispers  from  above,  that  haunt  the  twilight  vale : 

Say,  when  in  pity  ye  have  gazed 

On  the  wreath'd  smoke  afar, 
That  o'er  some  town,  like  mist  upraised, 

Hung  hiding  sun  and  star ; 
Then,  as  ye  turned  your  weary  eye 
To  the  green  earth  and  open  sky, 
Were  ye  not  fain  to  doubt  how  Faith  could  dwell 
Amid  that  dreary  glare,  in  this  world's  citadel  ? 

But  Love's  a  flower  that  will  not  die 

For  lack  of  leafy  screen, 
And  Christian  Hope  can  cheer  the  eye 

That  ne'er  saw  vernal  green  : 
Then  be  ye  sure  that  Love  can  bless 
Even  in  this  crowded  loneliness, 
WThere  ever-moving  myriads  seem  to  say, 
Go — thou  art  nought  to  us,  nor  we  to  thee — away  ! 


JOHN  ki: 

re  arc  in  this  loud  stunning  tide 
Of  human  rare  and  crime, 
With  whom  the  melodies  abide 

Of  the  everlasting  chime  ; 
Who  carry  music  in  their  heart, 
Through  dusky  lane  and  wrangling  mart, 
Plying  their  daily  task  with  busier  feet, 
Because  their  secret  souls  a  holy  strain  repeat. 


M 


1 94  HARTLE  Y  COLERIDGE. 


CVII. 

ELIJAH. 

A  little  cake  he  asked  for,  that  was  all ; 
And  that  she  gave — 'twas  all  she  had  to  give 
To  the  poor  hungry  Prophet  fugitive ; 
Not  knowing  quite,  she  yet  believed  the  call, 
And  she  was  blest.     Within  her  cottage  wall 
By  day  the  Prophet  prays,  at  night  he  lies, 
Whose  prayer  and  presence  daily  multiplies 
The  meat  and  cruse  that,  let  what  will  befall, 
Shall  still  suffice  for  each  successive  day. 
She  gave  a  little,  and  she  gave  enough, 
And  taught  us  how  to  use  the  passive  stuff 
That  earth  affords, — to  give  and  still  to  pray. 
Hope  be  the  Prophet,  and  the  cruse  Content ! 
Where  Hope  abides  the  cruse  shall  ne'er  be  spent. 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


CVIII. 

FOR    EVER   WITH   THE    LORD. 

For  ever  with  the  Lord  ! 
Amen  !  so  let  it  be  ! 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word, 
And  immortality ! 

Here  in  the  body  pent, 
Absent  from  him  I  roam, 
Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  high, 
Home  of  my  soul !  how  near, 
At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  appear  ! 

Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 
To  reach  the  land  I  love, 
The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 
Jerusalem  above  ! 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 
And  all  my  prospect  flies ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 
Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 


1 96  JAMES  MONTGOMER  Y. 

Anon  the  clouds  depart, 
The  winds  and  waters  cease  ; 
While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladden'd  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace  ! 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 
Along  the  hallowed  ground 
I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 
At  noon  and  midnight  hour, 
The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 

Earth's  Babel  tongues  o'erpowcr. 


Then,  then  I  feel  that  he, 
Remembered  or  forgot, 
The  Lord  is  never  far  from  me, 
Though  I  perceive  him  not. 


INCIS  QUAHLES. 


CIX. 

"WHOM  HAVE  I  IN  HEAVEN  BUT  THEE?  AND 

WHAT  DESIRE  I  ON  EARTH  IN  RESPECT 

OF  THEE?" 

I  love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the  earth  : 
She  is  my  Maker's  creature,  therefore  good  : 
She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth  ; 
She  is  my  tender  nurse ;  she  gives  me  food  : 

But  what's  a  creature,  Lord,  compared  with  thee  ? 

Or  what's  my  mother,  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air  •  her  dainty  sweets  refresh 
My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me ; 
Her  shrill-mouthed  choir  sustain  me  with  their  flesh, 
And  with  their  Polyphonian  notes  delight  me  : 
But  what's  the  air  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to  thee  ? 


I  love  the  sea  ;  she  is  my  fellow  creature ; 
My  careful  purveyor ;  she  provides  me  store  : 
She  walls  me  round  ;  she  makes  my  diet  greater  j 
She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore  ; 

But  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with  thee, 
What  is  the  ocean,  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 


198  FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey, 
Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye  ; 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney, 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky  : 

But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared  to  thee  ? 

Without  thy  presence  heaven's  no  heaven  to  me. 

Without  thy  presence  earth  gives  no  refection  ; 

Without  thy  presence  sea  affords  no  treasure  ; 

Without  thy  presence  air's  a  rank  infection  ; 

Without  thy  presence  heaven  itself 's  no  pleasure  : 
If  not  possest,  if  not  enjoyed  in  thee, 
What's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  to  me  ? 

The  highest  honours  that  the  world  can  boast 

Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire ; 

The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are,  at  most, 

But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  living  fire  ; 

The  proudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle,  be 
But  nightly  glow-worms,  if  compared  to  thee. 

Without  thy  presence  wealth  are  bags  of  cares ; 

Wisdom,  but  folly  ;  joy,  disquiet  sadness  ; 

Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares ; 

Pleasures  but  pain,  and  mirth  but  pleasing  madness  : 
Without  thee,  Lord,  things  be  not  what  they  be, 
Nor  have  they  being,  when  compared  with  thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  thee,  what  have  I  ? 

Xot  having  thee,  what  have  my  labours  got  ? 

Let  me  enjoy  but  thee,  what  further  crave  I? 

And  having  thee  alone,  what  have  I  not  ? 
I  wish  nor  sea,  nor  land,  nor  would  I  be 
Possest  of  heaven,  heaven  unpossest  of  thee. 


RICHARD  * 


CX. 
TE  DEUM  LAUDAMUS. 

Round  the  Lord  in  glory  seated 

Cherubim  and  Seraphim 
Filled  his  temple,  and  repeated 

Each  to  each  th'  alternate  hymn. 

"Lord,  thy  glory  fills  the  heaven, 
•  Earth  is  with  its  fulness  stored ; 
L'nto  thee  be  glory  given, 
Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord  !  " 

Heaven  is  still  with  glory  ringing, 
Earth  takes  up  the  angel's  cry, 

"  Holy,  holy,  holy," — singing, 

"  Lord  of  hosts,  the  Lord  most  high." 

With  his  seraph  train  before  him, 
With  his  holy  Church  below, 

Thus  conspire  we  to  adore  him, 
Bid  we  thus  our  anthem  flow  :  — 

"  Lord,  thy  glory  fills  the  heaven. 
Earth  is  with  thy  fulness  stored, 

Unto  thee  be  glory  given, 
Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord  ! " 


200  WILLIAM  BLAKE. 


CXI. 

ON  ANOTHER'S  SORROW. 

Can  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 
Can  I  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share  ? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filFd  ? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear  ? 
No,  no,  never  can  it  be, 
Never,  never  can  it  be. 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all 
Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear. 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast ; 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear: 


WILLIAM  BLAKE. 

And  not  sit,  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away  ? 
O  !  no,  never  can  it  be, 
Never,  never  can  it  be. 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all ; 
He  becomes  an  infant  small ; 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe  \ 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by  ; 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

O  !  He  gives  to  us  His  joy 
That  our  grief  He  may  destroy  : 
Till  our  grief  is  lied  and  gone 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 


202  JOHN  MASON  NEALE. 


CXIL 

THE  GUIDE. 

(From  "St.  Stephen  the  Sabaite.") 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid, 

Art  thou  sore  distrest  ? 
"  Come  to  me,"  saith  One,  "  and  coming 
Be  at  rest !  " 

Hath  he  marks  to  lead  me  to  him, 

If  he  be  my  guide  ? 
"  In  his  feet  and  hands  are  wound-prints, 
And  his  side." 

Hath  he  diadem  as  monarch 

That  his  brow  adorns  ? 
"  Yea,  a  crown,  in  very  surety, 

But  of  thorns  !  " 

If  I  find  him,  if  I  follow, 

What  his  guerdon  here  ? 
"  Many  a  sorrow,  many  a  labour, 
Many  a  tear." 

If  I  still  hold  closely  to  him, 

What  hath  he  at  last  ? 
•''  Sorrow  vanquished,  labour  ended, 
Jordan  past ! " 


JOHN  MASON  NEAZE. 

If  I  ask  him  to  receive  me, 

Will  he  say  me  nay  ? 
"  Not  till  earth,  and  not  till  heaven 
Pass  away  I  " 

Finding,  following,  keeping,  struggling, 

Is  he  sure  to  bless? 
11  Angels,  martyrs,  prophets,  virgins, 
Answer,  Yes  ! " 


2  o4  CHARLES  KINGSLE  Y. 


CXIII. 

A   FAREWELL. 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to  give  you  ; 

No  lark  could  pipe  to  skies  so  dull  and  grey  : 
Yet,  ere  we  part,  one  lesson  I  can  leave  you 
For  every  day. 

Be  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 
Do  noble  things,  nor  dream  them  all  day  long  \ 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 


1/EXR Y  U'.l DSll 'OR Til  I. ONGFELL 0 M . 


CXIV. 
VESPER   SONG. 

(From  "The  Golden  Legend.'' 
O  GLADSOME  light 

Of  the  Father  Immortal 
And  of  the  celestial 
Sacred  and  blessed 
Jesus,  our  Saviour  ! 

Now  to  the  sunset 
Again  hast  thou  brought  us ; 
And,  seeing  the  evening 
Twilight,  we  bless  thee, 
Praise  thee,  adore  thee  ! 

Father  Omnipotent ! 
Son,  the  Life-giver ! 
Spirit,  the  Comforter ! 
Worthy  at  all  times 
Of  worship  and  wonder  ! 


2o6  ROBERT  STEPHEN  HA  WKER. 


cxv. 

"THE   NIGHT   COMETH." 

When  darkness  fills  the  western  sky, 
And  sleep,  the  twin  of  death,  is  nigh, 
What  soothes  the  soul  at  set  of  sun  ? 
The  pleasant  thought  of  duty  done. 

Yet  must  the  pastoral  slumbers  be 
The  shepherd's — by  the  eastern  tree — 
Broken  and  brief,  with  dreams  that  tell 
Of  ravaged  flock  and  poisoned  well ! 

Be  still,  my  soul !  fast  wears  the  night, 
Soon  shall  day  dawn  in  holier  light : 
Old  faces — ancient  hearts — be  there, 
And  well-known  voices  thrill  the  air  ! 


LEWIS  MORA' IS. 


CXVL 

A   HYMN    IN    TIME    OF    IDOLS. 

Though  they  may  crowd 

Rite  upon  rite,  and  mystic  song  on  song ; 

Though  the  deep  organ  loud 

Through  the  long  nave  reverberate  full  and  strong ; 

Though  the  weird  priest, 

Whom  rolling  clouds  of  incense  half  conceal, 

By  gilded  robes  increased, 

Mutter  and  sign,  and  proudly  prostrate  kneel ; 

Not  pomp,  nor  song,  nor  bended  knee 

Shall  bring  them  any  nearer  Thee. 

I  would  not  hold 

Therefore  that  those  who  worship  still  where  they, 

In  dear  dead  days  of  old, 

Their  distant  sires  knelt  once  and  passed  away, 

May  not  from  carven  stone, 

High  arching  nave  and  reeded  column  fine, 

And  the  thin  soaring  tone 

Of  the  keen  organ  catch  a  breath  divine, 

Or  that  the  immemorial  sense 

Of  worship  adds  not  reverence. 

But  by  some  bare 

Hillside  or  plain,  or  crowded  city  street, 

Wherever  purer  spirits  are, 


2o8 


LE  WIS  MORRIS. 


Or  hearts  with  love  inflamed  together  meet, 

Rude  bench  or  naked  wall, 

Humble  and  sordid  to  the  world-dimmed  sight, 

On  these  shall  come  to  fall 

A  golden  ray  of  consecrating  light, 

And  thou  within  the  midst  shalt  there 

Invisible  receive  the  prayer. 


In  every  home, 

Wherever  there  are  loving  hearts  and  mild, 

Thou  still  dost  deign  to  come, 

Clothed  with  the  likeness  of  a  little  child. 

Upon  the  earth  thou  still 

Dwellest  with  them  at  meat,  or  work,  or  play. 

Thou  who  all  space  dost  fill 

Art  with  the  pure  and  humble  day  by  day ; 

Thou  treasurest  the  tears  they  weep, 

And  watchest  o'er  them  while  they  sleep. 


Spirit  and  Word 

That  still  art  hid  in  every  faithful  heart, 

Indwelling  Thought  and  Lord — 

How  should  they  doubt  who  know  thee  as  thou  art  ? 

How  think  to  bring  thee  near 

By  magic  words,  or  signs,  or  any  spell, 

Who  art  among  us  here, 

Who  always  in  the  loving  soul  dost  dwell, 

Who  art  the  staff  and  stay  indeed 

Of  the  weak  knees  and  hands  that  bleed  ? 


II VS  MORRIS,  209 

Then  let  them  take 

Their  pagan  trappings,  and  their  lifeless  lore  : 

Let  us  arise  and  make 

A  worthy  temple  where  was  none  before. 

Each  soul  is  its  own  shrine, 

Its  priesthood,  its  sufficient  sacrifice, 

Its  cleansing  fount  divine, 

Its  hidden  store  of  precious  sanctities. 

Those  only  fit  for  priestcraft  are 

From  whom  their  Lord  and  KinGr  is  far. 


T5 


2io  SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 


CXVII. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will  \ 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  silly  truth  his  highest  skill  • 

Whose  passions  not  his  master  are ; 

Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  to  the  world  with  care 

Of  prince's  grace  or  vulgar  breath  ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  humours  free ; 

Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 

Nor  ruin  make  accusers  great : 

Who  envieth  none  whom  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  swords  give  slighter  wounds  than  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well-chosen  book  or  friend. 


SIR  HENR  V  WO  TTON.  1 1 1 

This  man  is  free  from  servile  hands 

( H  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall  ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


2i2         JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


CXVIII. 

THE   TWO   ANGELS, 

God  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell  with  him  above : 
The  tenderest  one  was  Pity,  the  dearest  one  was  Love, 

il  Arise/'  he  said,  "my  angels  !  a  wail  of  woe  and  sin 
Steals  through  the  gates  of  heaven,  and  saddens  ^11  within-, 

"  My  harps  take  up  the  mournful  strain  that  from  a  lost 

world  swells, 
The  smoke  of  torment  clouds  the  light  and  Wights  the  as- 

phodels. 

"  Fly  downward  to  that  under  world,  and  on  its  souls  of 

pain 
Let  Love  drop  smiles   like  sunshine,  and  Pity  tears  like 

rain  !  " 

Two  faces  bowed  before  the  Throne,  veiled  in  their  golden 

hair; 
Four  white  wings  lessened  swiftly  down  the  dark  abyss  of 

air. 

The  way  was  strange,  the  flight  was  long ;  at  last  the  angels 
came 

Where  swung  the  lost  and  nether  world,  red-wrapped  in  ray- 
less  flame. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 

Then    Pity,  shuddering,  wept;   but   Love,  with   faith   too 

strong  for  fear, 
Took  heart  from  Clod's  almightiness,  and  smiled  a  smile  of 
cheer. 

And  lo  !  that  tear  of  Pity  quenched  the  flame  whereon  it 

fell, 
And,  with  the  sunshine  of  that  smile,  hope  entered  into 

hell! 

Two  unveiled  faces  full  of  joy  looked  upward  to  the  Throne, 
Four  white  wings  folded  at  the  feet  of  him  who  sat  thereon ! 

And  deeper  than  the  sound  of  seas,  more  soft  than  falling 

flake, 
Amidst  the  hush  of  wing  and  song  the  Voice  Eternal  spake — 

"  Welcome,  my  angels  !  ye  have  brought  a  holier  joy  to 

heaven  ; 
Henceforth  its  sweetest  song  shall  be  the  song  of  sin  for- 


given i 


t » 


2i4  JOHN  AUSTIN. 


CXIX. 

A  HYMN. 

Dear  Jesu  !  when,  when  will  it  be 
That  I  no  more  shall  break  with  thee  ? 
When  will  this  war  of  passion  cease, 
And  let  my  soul  enjoy  thy  peace  ? 

Here  I  repent  and  sin  again  : 
Now  I  revive  and  now  am  slain ; 
Slain  with  the  same  unhappy  dart 
Which,  O  !  too  often  wounds  my  heart. 

AVhen,  dearest  Lord  !  when  shall  I  be 
A  garden  sealed  to  all  but  thee  ? 
No  more  exposed,  no  more  undone ; 
But  live  and  grow  to  thee  alone. 

Tis  not,  alas  !  on  this  low  earth 
That  such  pure  flowers  can  find  a  birth  : 
Only  they  spring  above  the  skies, 
Where  none  can  live  till  here  he  dies. 

Then  let  me  die,  that  I  may  go 
And  dwell  where  those  bright  lilies  grow ; 
AVhere  those  best  plants  of  glory  rise, 
And  make  a  safer  paradise. 


JOHN  AUSTIN. 

No  dangerous  fruit,  no  tempting  Eve, 
No  crafty  serpent  to  deceive  ; 
But  we  Like  gods  indeed  shall  be  J 

O  let  me  die  that  life  to  see ! 


Thus  says  my  song  ;  but  does  my  heart 
Join  with  the  words,  and  sing  its  part? 
Am  I  so  thorough  wise  to  choose 
The  other  world  and  this  refuse  ? 

Why  should  I  not?  what  do  I  find 

That  fully  here  contents  my  mind  ? 

What  is  this  meat,  and  drink,  and  sleep, 

That  such  poor  things  from  heaven  should  keep  ? 

What  is  this  honour,  or  great  place, 
Or  bag  of  money,  or  fair  face, 
What's  all  the  world  that  thus  we  should 
Still  long  to  dwell  with  flesh  and  blood  ? 

Fear  not,  my  soul ;  stand  to  the  word 
Which  thou  hast  sung  to  thy  dear  Lord  : 
Let  but  thy  love  be  firm  and  true, 
And  with  more  heat  thy  wish  renew. 

O  may  this  dying  life  make  haste 
To  die  into  true  life  at  last : 
Xo  hope  have  I  to  live  before  \ 
But  there  to  live  and  die  no  more. 


2 1 6  WILLIAM  DR  UMMOND. 


CXX. 
FROM  "  FLOWERS  OF  SION." 

i. 

THE    EAPT1ST. 

The  last  and  greatest  herald  of  heaven's  king, 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild, 
Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
Which  he  than  man  more  harmless  found  and  mild 

His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  young  doth  spring, 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distilled ; 
Parched  body,  hollow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing 
Made  him  appear  long  since  from  earth  exiled. 

Then  burst  he  forth  :  "  All  ye,  whose  hopes  rely 
On  God,  with  me  amid  these  deserts  mourn  \ 
Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errors  turn." 

Who  listened  to  his  voice,  obeyed  his  cry  ? 

Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent, 

Rung  from  their  marble  caves,  "  Repent,  repent  ! " 


X 


\ 


117/. /JAM  DRVMMOND. 


ii. 


THE    MAGDALEN. 


These  eyes,  dear  Lord,  once  brandons  of  desire, 
Frail  scouts  betraying  what  they  had  to  keep, 
Which  their  own  heart,  then  others  set  on  fire, 
Their  traitorous  black  before  thee  here  out-weep ; 

These  locks,  of  blushing  deeds  the  fair  attire, 
Smooth-frizzled  waves,  sad  shelves  which  shadow  deep, 
Soul-stinging  serpents  in  gilt  curls  which  creep, 
To  touch  thy  sacred  feet  do  now  aspire. 

In  seas  of  Care  behold  a  sinking  bark, 

By  winds  of  sharp  remorse  unto  thee  driven, 

O  !  let  me  not  exposed  be  Ruin's  mark  \ 

My  faults  confest, — Lord,  say  they  are  forgiven. 
Thus  sighed  to  Jesus  the  Bethanian  fair, 
His  tear-wet  feet  still  drying  with  her  hair. 


2i8  JOHN  KEBLE. 


CXXI. 
FOREST  LEAVES  IN  AUTUMN. 

Red  o'er  the  forest  peers  the  setting  sun, 
The  line  of  yellow  light  dies  fast  away 

That  crowned  the  eastern  copse  :  and  chill  and  dun 
Falls  on  the  moor  the  brief  November  day. 

Now  the  tired  hunter  winds  a  parting  note, 
And  Echo  bids  good-night  from  every  glade  ; 

Yet  wait  awhile,  and  see  the  calm  leaves  float 
Each  to  his  rest  beneath  their  parent  shade. 

How  like  decaying  life  they  seem  to  glide  ! 

And  yet  no  second  spring  have  they  in  store, 
But  where  they  fall  forgotten  to  abide 

Is  all  their  portion,  and  they  ask  no  more. 

Soon  o'er  their  heads  blithe  April  airs  shall  sing, 
A  thousand  wild- flowers  round  them  shall  unfold, 

The  green  buds  glisten  in  the  dews  of  Spring, 
And  all  be  vernal  rapture  as  of  old. 

Unconscious  they  in  waste  oblivion  lie, 

In  all  the  world  of  busy  life  around 
No  thought  of  them  ;  fn  all  the  bounteous  sky 

No  drop,  for  them,  of  kindly  influence  found. 


JOHN  KEBLK  219 

Man's  {  union  is  to  die  and  rise  again — 
Yet  he  complains,  while  these  unmurmuring  part 

With  their  sweet  lives,  as  pure  from  sin  and  stain, 
As  his  when  Eden  held  his  virgin  heart 


And  haply  half  unblamed  his  murmuring  voice 
Might  sound  in  Heaven,  were  all  his  second  life 

Only  the  first  renewed — the  heathen's  choice, 
A  round  of  listless  joy  and  weary  strife. 


For  dreary  were  this  earth,  if  earth  were  all, 

Though  brightened  oft  by  dear  affection's  kiss  ;- 

Who  for  the  spangles  wears  the  funeral  pall  ? 
JJut  catch  a  gleam  beyond  it,  and  'tis  bliss. 


Heavy  and  dull  this  frame  of  limbs  and  heart, 
Whether  slow  creeping  on  cold  earth,  or  borne 

On  lofty  steed,  or  loftier  prow,  we  dart 

O'er  wave  or  field  :  yet  breezes  laugh  to  scorn 

Our  puny  speed,  and  birds,  and  clouds  in  heaven, 
And  fish,  like  living  shafts  that  pierce  the  main, 

And  stars  that  shoot  through  freezing  air  at  even 
Who  but  would  follow,  might  he  break  his  chain  ? 


And  thou  shalt  break  it  soon  ;  the  grovelling  worm 
Shall  find  his  wings,  and  soar  as  fast  and  free 

As  his  transfigured  Lord  with  lightning  form 
And  snowy  vest — such  grace  he  won  for  thee, 


ilo  JOHN  KEBLE. 

When  from  the  grave  he  sprung  at  dawn  of  morn, 
And  led  through  boundless  air  thy  conquering  road, 

Leaving  a  glorious  track,  where  saints  new-born 
Might  fearless  follow  to  their  blest  abode. 

But  first  by  many  a  stern  and  fiery  blast 

The  world's  rude  furnace  must  thy  blood  refine, 

And  many  a  gale  of  keenest  woe  be  passed, 
Till  every  pulse  beat  true  to  airs  divine  \ 

Till  every  limb  obey  the  mounting  soul, 
The  mounting  soul,  the  call  by  Jesus  given. 

He  who  the  stormy  heart  can  so  control, 
The  laggard  body  soon  will  waft  to  heaven. 


5  HERBERT. 


AA  RON, 

Holiness  on  the  head  ; 
Light  and  perfections  on  the  breast ; 
Harmonious  bells  below,  raising  the  dead, 
To  lead  them  unto  life  and  rest — 

Thus  are  true  Aarons  drest. 

Profaneness  in  my  head  ; 
Defects  and  darkness  in  my  breast ; 
A  noise  of  passions  ringing  me  for  dead 
Unto  a  place  where  is  no  rest — 

Poor  priest,  thus  am  I  drest ! 

Only  another  head 
I  have,  another  heart  and  breast, 
Another  music,  making  live,  not  dead, 
Without  whom  I  could  have  no  rest — 

In  him  I  am  well  drest. 

Christ  is  my  only  head, 
My  alone  only  heart  and  breast, 
My  only  music,  striking  me  even  dead, 
That  to  the  old  man  I  may  rest, 

And  be  in  him  new  drest. 


222  GEORGE  HERBERT. 

So  holy  in  my  head, 
Perfect  and  light  in  my  dear  breast, 
My  doctrine  turned  by  Christ,  who  is  not  dead, 
But  lives  in  me  while  I  do  rest — 

Come,  people  :  Aaron's  drest. 


LORD  BYRON. 


CXXIII. 
"A  SPIRIT  PASSED  BEFORE  ME.'5 

(From  Job.) 

A  spirit  passed  before  me  :  I  beheld 

The  face  of  immortality  unveiled — 

Deep  sleep  came  down  on  every  eye  save  mine — 

And  there  it  stood, — all  formless — but  divine  : 

Along  my  bones  the  creeping  flesh  did  quake  : 

And  as  my  damp  air  stiffened,  thus  it  spake  : 

11  Is  man  more  just  than  God  ?  Is  man  more  pure 
Than  He  who  deems  even  Seraphs  insecure  ? 
Creatures  of  clay — vain  dwellers  in  the  dust ! 
The  moth  survives  you,  and  are  ye  more  just? 
Things  of  a  day  !  you  wither  ere  the  night, 
Heedless  and  blind  to  Wisdom's  wasted  lisjht  !  " 


224  ISAAC  Willi  A  MS. 


CXXIV. 

BASIL. 

Beautiful  flowers  round  wisdom's  secret  well, 
Deep  holy  thoughts  of  penitential  lore, 
But  dressed  with  images  from  Nature's  store, 
Handmaid  of  Piety  !  like  thine  own  cell 
By  Pontic  mountain-wilds  and  shaggy  fell, 

Great  Basil !  there,  within  thy  lonely  door, 
Watching,  and  fast,  and  prayer,  and  penance  dwell, 

And  sternly  nursed  affections  heavenward  soar. 
Without  are  setting  suns  and  summer  skies, 
Ravine,  rock,  wood,  and  fountain  melodies ; 
And  earth  and  heaven,  holding  communion  sweet 
Teem  with  wild  beauty.     Such  thy  calm  retreat, 
Blest  Saint !  and  of  thyself  an  emblem  meet, 
All  fair  without,  within  all  stern  and  wise. 


SAMUEL   WADDINGTi 


cxxv. 

ST.  FRANCIS,  OF  ASSISI. 

On  earth  he  walked,  yet  did  in  heaven  dwell ; 
With  upturned  gaze  the  upland  paths  he  trod  \ 
He  worshipped  Nature,  but  he  knelt  to  God, 
Nor  to  the  Angelic  hosts  bade  long  farewell : 
His  life  was  blameless  as  the  lily's  bell ; 
The  wrongful  deed  he  smote  with  chastening  rod  ; 
Around  his  feet,  with  mystic  splendour  shod, 
The  glory  brightened  ere  the  darkness  fell ! 
Beloved  of  mortals !  thine  immortal  soul 
Hearkened  and  heard  above  life's  thunder-roll 
The  Spirit's  quickening  voice,  "  Be  good,  be  kind  ! " 
Oh,  blessed  ye  that  hear,  and  ye  that  hearken, 
Oh,  blessed  ye,  if  when  death-shadows  darken, 
These  words  graved  on  your  hearts  we  yet  shall  find. 


16 


226  RLGINALD  IFEBER. 


CXXVI. 

HYM  N. 

Oh,  Captain  of  God's  host,  whose  dreadful  might 
Led  forth  to  war  the  armed  seraphim, 

And  from  the  starry  height, 

Subdued  in  burning  fight, 
Cast  down  that  ancient  dragon,  dark  and  grim  ! 

Thine  angels,  Christ !  we  laud  in  solemn  lays, 
Our  elder  brethren  of  the  crystal  sky, 

Who,  'mid  thy  glory's  blaze, 

The  ceaseless  anthem  raise, 
And  gird  thy  throne  in  faithful  ministry  ! 

We  celebrate  their  love,  whose  viewless  wing 
Hath  left  for  us  so  oft  their  mansion  high, 

The  mercies  of  their  King 

To  mortal  saints  to  bring, 
Or  guard  the  couch  of  slumbering  infancy. 

But  thee,  the  first  and  last,  we  glorify, 
Who  when  thy  world  was  sunk  in  death  and  sin, 

Not  with  thine  hierarchy, 

The  armies  of  the  sky, 
But  didst  with  thine  own  arm  the  battle  win. 


GINALD  HEBER,  227 

Alone  didst  pass  the  dark  and  dismal  shore, 
Alone  didst  tread  the  wine-press,  and  alone, 
All  glorious  in  thy  gore, 
Didst  light  and  life  restore, 
To  us  who  lay  in  darkness  and  undone  ! 

Therefore,  with  angels  and  archangels,  we 
To  thy  dear  love  our  thankful  chorus  raise, 

And  tune  our  songs  to  thee 

Who  art,  and  art  to  be, 
And,  endless  as  thy  mercies,  sound  thy  praise  ! 


RICHARD    WILTON. 


CXXVII. 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  REED. 

"  They  are  like  unto  children  sitting  in  the  market-place,  and  calling 
one  to  another  ;  and  saying,  We  have  piped  unto  you,  and  ye  have 
not  danced  ;  we  have  mourned  unto  you,  and  ye  have  not  wept." — 
S.  Luke  vii. 

O  Son  of  Man,  great  Shepherd  of  the  sheep, 
Thou  pipest  to  us,  shall  thy  children  weep  ? 
Sheep  of  thy  pasture,  shall  we  not  rejoice 
And  dance  to  thy  soft  notes  and  gentle  voice  ? 

No  strain  so  sweet  e'er  flowed  from  Grecian  lute, 
Or  pipe  of  Arcady,  or  Dorian  flute  \ 
Of  Roman  lyre  no  mention  shall  be  made, 
And  David's  harp  before  this  reed  must  fade. 

A  simple  reed  by  Syrian  wraters  found 
From  human  lips  took  a  celestial  sound  : 
Through  it  strange  melodies  our  Shepherd  blew, 
And  wondering,  wistful  ones  around  him  drew, 

Of  heavenly  love  with  cadence  deep  it  told, 
Of  labours  long  to  win  them  to  the  fold, 
Of  bleeding  feet  upon  the  mountains  steep, 
And  life  laid  down  to  save  his  erring  sheep. 


RICHARD   WILTON* 

O  loving  Shepherd,  to  that  gracious  strain 
We  Listen  and  we  listen  once  again, 
And  while  its  music  sinks  into  our  heart, 
Our  fears  grow  fainter  and  our  doubts  depart. 

Lord,  pipe  to  me,  and  I  will  weep  no  more, 
But  joyful  follow  to  yon  happy  shore, 
Where  my  glad  soul  shall  sing  and  dance  to  thee 
In  the  "green  pastures"  of  Eternity  ! 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGE. 


CXXVIII. 
SUNDAY. 

Thou  blessed  day  !  I  will  not  call  thee  last, 
Nor  Sabbath — last  nor  first  of  all  the  seven, 
But  a  calm  slip  of  intervening  heaven, 

Between  the  uncertain  future  and  the  past  \ 

As  in  a  stormy  night,  amid  the  blast, 
Comes  ever  and  anon  a  truce  on  high, 
And  a  calm  lake  of  pure  and  starry  sky 

Peers  thro'  the  mountainous  depth  of  clouds  amass'd. 

Sweet  day  of  prayer  !  e'en  they  whose  scrupulous  dread 

Will  call  no  other  day,  as  others  do, 
Might  call  thee  Sunday  without  fear  or  blame  \ 
For  thy  bright  morn  delivered  from  the  dead 

Our  Sun  of  Life,  and  will  for  aye  renew 
To  faithful  souls  the  import  of  thy  name. 

The  ancient  Sabbath  was  an  end, — a  pause, — 
A  stillness  of  the  world  ;  the  work  was  done  ! 
But  ours  commemorates  a  work  begun. 

Why,  then  subject  the  new  to  antique  laws? 

The  ancient  Sabbath  closed  the  week,  because 
The  world  was  finished.     Ours  proclaims  the  sun, 
Its  glorious  saint,  alert  its  course  to  run. 

Vanguard  of  days  !  escaped  the  baffled  jaws 


HARTLEY  COLERIDGEi  231 

Of  slumbrous  dark  and  death-- so  fitly  first 

Is  Sunday  placed  before  the  secular  d 
Unmeetly  clad  in  weeds,  with  arms  reversed, 

To  trail  in  sullen  thought  by  silent  ways. 
Like  the  fresh  dawn,  or  rose-bud  newly  burst, 
So  let  our  Sabbath  wear  the  face  of  praise  ! 


232  ADELAIDE  ANNE  PROCTER. 

CXXIX. 
PER  PACEM  AD  LUCEM. 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be 

A  pleasant  road  ; 
I  do  not  ask  that  thou  wouldst  take  from  me 

Aught  of  its  load  ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord,  I  plead  \ 

Lead  me  aright — 
Though    strength    should    falter,    and    though    heart 
should  bleed — 

Through  peace  to  light. 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  thou  shouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here  \ 
Give  but  a  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 

My  way  to  see — 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  thy  hand, 

And  follow  thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day ;  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night : 
Lead  me,  O  Lord — till  perfect  day  shall  shine, 

Through  peace  to  light. 


ELIZABETH  /■  T  BROWNING. 


cxxx. 

THE  TWO  SAYINGS. 

Two  sayings  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  beat 
Like  pulses  in  the  Church's  brow  and  breast  \ 
And  by  them  we  find  rest  in  our  unrest, 
And,  heart-deep  in  salt  tears,  do  yet  entreat, 
God's  fellowship  as  if  on  heavenly  seat. 
The  first  is  Jesus  wept — whereon  is  prest 
Full  many  a  sobbing  face  that  drops  its  best 
And  sweetest  waters  on  the  record  sweet : 
And  one  is  where  the  Christ,  denied  and  scorned, 
Looked  upon  Peter.     Oh,  to  render  plain, 
By  help  of  having  loved  a  little  and  mourned, 
That  look  of  sovran  love  and  sovran  pain 
Which  he,  who  could  not  sin  yet  suffered,  turned 
On  him  who  could  reject  but  not  sustain  ! 


234  RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


CXXXI. 

THE  PRODIGAL. 

Why  fcedest  thou  on  husks  so  coarse  and  rude  ? 
I  could  not  be  content  with  angels'  food. 

How  earnest  thou  companion  to  the  swine  ? 
I  loathed  the  courts  of  heaven,  the  choir  divine. 

Who  bade  thee  crouch  in  hovel  dark  and  drear  ? 
I  left  a  palace  wide  to  hide  me  here. 

Harsh  tyrant's  slave  who  made  thee,  once  so  free  ? 
A  father's  rule  too  heavy  seemed  to  me. 

What  sordid  rags  float  round  thee  on  the  breeze  ? 
I  laid  immortal  robes  aside  for  these. 

An  exile  through  the  world  who  bade  thee  roam  ? 
None,  but  I  wearied  of  a  happy  home. 

Why  must  thou  dweller  in  a  desert  be  ? 
A  garden  seemed  not  fair  enough  to  me. 

Why  sue  a  beggar  at  the  mean  world's  door  ? 
To  live  on  God's  large  bounty  seemed  so  poor. 

What  has  thy  forehead  so  to  earthward  brought  ? 
To  lift  it  higher  than  the  stars  I  thought. 


ALEXANDER  POPE, 


CXXXIL 

THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou  Great  First  Cause,  least  understood  ! 

Who  all  my  sense  confined, 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind  ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill  \ 
And  binding  Nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do — 
This,  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That,  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives, 

Let  me  not  cast  away  \ 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives  ; 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 


-J 


6  ALEXANDER  POPE, 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 
When  thousand  worlds  are  round 


Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land, 
On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 


If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart, 
Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 

If  I  am  wrong,  O  !  teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 


Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  shew, 

That  mercy  shew  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am — not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  thy  breath  ; — 

O  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 
Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 

This  day,  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot  : 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  dune. 


To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies, 

One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise  ! 
All  Nature's  incense  rise  ! 


238  HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


CXXXIII. 

THE  RETREAT. 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I 
Shined  in  my  angel- infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  ought 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walked  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  love, 
And  looking  back,  at  that  short  space, 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  his  bright  face  ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And,  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense  ; 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 
O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train, 


HENR  V  VAl  GHAN. 

From  whence  the  enlighten*  ees 

That  shady  city  of  palm-tre<   , 

But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 

Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way  ! 

Some  men  a  forward  motif  n  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  th  I  came  return. 


24o  CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 


C  XXX IV. 

HYMN. 

(On  laying  the  Foundation-stone   of  part  of  Queen's   Hospital, 
Birmingham.) 

Accept  this  building,  gracious  Lord, 

No  temple  though  it  be  ; 
We  raised  it  for  our  suffering  kin, 

And  so,  good  Lord,  for  thee. 

Accept  our  little  gift,  and  give 

To  all  who  here  may  dwell, 
The  will  and  power  to  do  their  work, 

Or  bear  their  sorrows  well. 


From  thee  all  skill  and  science  flow; 

All  pity,  care,  and  love, 
All  calm  and  courage,  faith  and  hope,- 

Oh  !  pour  them  from  above. 

And  part  them,  Lord,  to  each  and  all, 
As  each  and  all  shall  need, 

To  rise  like  incense,  each  to  thee, 
In  noble  thought  and  deed. 


CHARLES  KINGSLEY* 

And  hasten,  Lord,  that  perfect  day, 

When  pain  and  death  shall  cease; 
And  thy  just  rule  shall  fill  the  earth 
VVith  health,  and  li-ht,  and  peace. 

When  ever  blue  the  sky  shall  gleam, 

And  ever  green  the  sod; 
And  man's  rude  work  deface  no  more 

The  Paradise  of  God. 


2)1 


*7 


•42  REGINALD  HEBER. 


cxxxv. 

"BY  COOL  SILOAM'S  SHADY  RILL." 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 

How  sweet  the  lily  grows  ! 
How  sweet  the  breath  beneath  the  hill 

Of  Sharon's  dewy  rose  ! 

Lo  !  such  the  child  whose  early  feet 

The  paths  of  peace  have  trod  : 
Whose  secret  heart,  with  influence  sweet, 

Is  upward  drawn  to  God  ! 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 

The  lily  must  decay  \ 
The  rose  that  blooms  beneath  the  hill 

Must  shortly  fade  away. 

And  soon,  too  soon,  the  wintry  hour 

Of  man's  maturer  age 
Will  shake  the  soul  with  sorrow's  power, 

And  stormy  passion's  rage  ! 

O  Thou,  whose  infant  feet  were  found 

Within  thy  Father's  shrine  ! 
Whose  years,  with  changeless  virtue  crowned, 

Were  all  alike  divine  : 


REGINALD  HEBER.  2.n 

Dependent  on  thy  bounteous  breath, 

We  seek  thy  grace  alone, 

In  childhood,  manhood,  age,  and  death, 
To  keep  us  still  thine  own  ! 


244  W.  R.  NEALE. 


CXXXVI. 
THE  WIDOW  OF  NAIN. 

u  And  when  the  Lord  saw  her,  he  had  compassion  on  her,  and  said 
unto  her,  Weep  not." — S.  Luke  vii.  13. 

Forth  from  the  city  gate, 
As  evening  shadows  lengthen  o'er  the  plain, 
And  the  hushed  crowd  in  reverent  silence  wait, 

Passed  out  a  funeral  train. 


Only  one  mourner  there, 
Slowly,  with  feeble  steps,  following  the  dead, 
In  the  sad  travail  of  the  soul's  despair 

Bowed  down  her  stricken  head. 


For  him  she  wept  forlorn, 
Of  care  the  solace,  and  of  age  the  stay, 
Whose  silver  cord  was  broken  ere  the  morn 

Had  brightened  into  day. 

Thus  hath  it  ever  been, — 
Time  the  destroyer  sweeps  relentless  by, 
When  hopes  are  strong  and  leaves  of  promise  green, 

And  manhood's  heart  beats  high. 


m  A\  NEALE.  245 

Wh  )  conies  of  stately  mien, 
As  <>ne  with  travel  weary,  seeking  rest, — 
Whose  aspect  gentle,  and  whose  brow  serene, 

Speak  of  a  mission  blest  ? 


Tis  he,  with  power  to  save, 
Who  where  desponding  grief  his  vigil  kept, 
Knowing  all  human  sufferings,  at  the  grave 

Of  Lazarus  wept. 


Thus  spake  he, — "  Weep  no  more  ! 
Be  still,  sad  heart  !  be  dry,  ye  moistened  eyes  ! 
Thus  to  the  living  I  the  dead  restore  : 

Sleeper,  awake,  arise  !  " 


Then  at  his  bidding  came 
To  those  cold  lips  the  warm,  returning  breath ; 
Then  did  he  kindle  life's  extinguished  flame, 

Victor  o'er  Sin  and  Death. 


And  thus  he  ever  stands, — 
Friend  of  the  fallen,  wiping  all  tears  away, 
Whenever  sorrow  lifts  her  suppliant  hands, 

And  Faith  remains  to  pray. 

Where'er  the  wretched  flee, 
From  the  rude  conflict  of  this  world  distress'd, 
Consoling  words  He  whispers, — "  Come  to  me, 

And  I  will  give  you  rest !  " 


246  IV.  R.  XEALE. 

Till  at  the  second  birth, 
He  bids  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  ages  cease, 
And  brings  to  an  emancipated  earth, 

Judgment,  and  truth,  and  peace  ; 

And  gathers  all  his  own 
From  the  four  winds  to  that  eternal  shore, 
Where  Mercy  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne, 

And  Death  shall  be  no  more. 


FREDERICK  11'.  //.  AIYEI 


CXXXVII. 
FROM  "SAINT  PAUL. 

(ion,  who  at  sundry  times,  in  manners  many 
Spake  to  the  fathers  and  is  speaking  still, 

Eager  to  find  if  ever  or  if  any 

Souls  will  obey  and  hearken  to  his  will, — 

Who  that  one  moment  has  the  least  descried  him, 

Dimly  and  faintly,  hidden  and  afar, 
Doth  not  despise  all  excellence  beside  him, 

Pleasures  and  powers  that  are  not  and  that  are,- 

Ay  amid  all  men  bear  himself  thereafter, 
Smit  with  a  solemn  and  a  sweet  surprise, 

Dumb  to  their  scorn  and  turning  on  their  laughter 
Only  the  dominance  of  earnest  eyes  ? — 

God,  who  whatever  frenzy  of  our  fretting 
Vexes  sad  life  to  spoil  and  to  destroy, 

Lendeth  an  hour  for  peace  and  for  forgetting, 
Setteth  in  pain  the  jewel  of  his  joy  : — 

Gentle  and  faithful,  tyrannous  and  tender, 

Ye  that  have  known  him,  is  he  sweet  to  know  ? 

Softly  he  touches,  for  the  reed  is  slender, 
Wisely  enkindles,  for  the  Same  is  low. 


24S  FREDERICK  IV.  H.  MYERS. 

God,  who  when  Enoch  on  the  earth  was  holy, 
Saved  him  from  death  and  Noe  from  the  sea, 

Planned  him  a  purpose  that  should  ripen  slowly, 
Found  in  Chaldaea  the  elect  Chaldee, — 


God,  who  for  sowing  of  the  seed  thereafter 

Called  him  from  Charran,  summoned  him  from  Ur, 

Gave  to  his  wife  a  weeping  and  a  laughter, 
Light  to  the  nations  and  a  son  for  her, — 


God,  who  in  Israel's  bondage  and  bewailing 

Heard  them  and  granted  them  their  heart's  desire, 

Clave  them  the  deep  with  power  and  with  prevailing, 
Gloomed  in  the  cloud  and  glowed  into  the  fire, 


Fed  them  with  manna,  furnished  with  a  fountain, 
Followed  with  waves  the  raising  of  the  rod, 

Drew  them  and  drave,  till  Moses  on  the  mountain 
Died  of  the  kisses  of  the  lips  of  God, — ■ 

God,  who  was  not  in  earth  when  it  was  shaken, 
Could  not  be  found  in  fury  of  the  flame, 

Then  to  his  seer,  the  faithful  and  forsaken, 
Softly  was  manifest  and  spake  by  name. 


Showed  him  a  remnant  barred  from  the  betrayal, 
Close  in  his  Carmel,  where  the  caves  are  dim, 

So  many  knees  that  had  not  bent  to  Baal, 
So  many  mouths  that  had  not  kissed  him, — 


EDERICK  n:  //.  MYERS. 

God,  who  to  -lean  the  vineyard  of  his  choosing 
Sent  them  evangelists  till  the  day  was  done, 

Bore  with  the  churls,  their  wrath  and  their  refusing, 
Gave  at  the  last  the  glory  of  his  Son  : — 


Lo  as  in  Eden  when  the  days  were  seven, 
Pison  thro'  Havilah  that  softly  ran 

Pare  on  his  breast  the  changes  of  the  heaven, 
Felt  on  his  shores  the  silence  of  a  man  : 


Silence,  for  Adam  when  the  day  departed 
Left  him  in  twilight  with  his  charge  to  keep, 

Careless  and  confident  and  single-hearted, 
Trusted  in  God  and  turned  himself  to  sleep 


Then  in  the  midnight,  stirring  in  his  slumber, 
Opened  his  vision  on  the  heights  and  saw 

New  without  name  or  ordinance  or  number, 
Set  for  a  marvel,  silent  for  an  awe, 


Stars  in  the  firmament  above  him  beaming, 
Stars  in  the  firmament,  alive  and  free, 

Stars,  and  of  stars  the  innumerable  streaming, 
Deep  in  the  deeps,  a  river  in  the  sea ; — 


These  as  he  watched  thro'  march  of  their  arising, 
Many  in  multitudes  and  one  by  one, 

Somewhat  from  God  with  a  superb  surprising 
Breathed  in  his  eyes  the  promise  of  the  sun. 


?5o  FREDERICK  IV.  II.  MYERS. 

So  tho'  our  Day  star  from  our  sight  be  taken, 
Gone  from  his  brethren,  hidden  from  his  own, 

Yet  in  his  setting  are  we  not  forsaken, 
Suffer  not  shadows  of  the  dark  alone. 


Not  in  the  west  is  thine  appearance  ended, 
Neither  from  night  shall  thy  renewal  be, 

Lo,  for  the  firmament  in  spaces  splendid 
Lio-hteth  her  beacon-fires  ablaze  for  thee  : 


Holds  them  and  hides  and  drowns  them  and  discovers, 
Throngs  them  together,  kindles  them  afar, 

Showeth,  O  Love,  thy  multitudes  of  lovers, 

Souls  that  shall  know  thee  and  the  saints  that  are. 


Look  what  a  company  of  constellations  ! 

Say  can  the  sky  so  many  lights  contain  ? 
Hath  the  great  earth  these  endless  generations  ? 

Are  there  so  many  purified  thro'  pain  ? 

These  thro;  all  glow  and  eminence  of  glory 
Cry  for  a  brighter,  who  delayeth  long  : 

Star  unto  star  the  everlasting  story 
Peals  in  a  mystic  sanctity  of  song. 


Witness  the  hour  when  many  saints  assembled 
Waited  the  Spirit,  and  the  Spirit  came ; 

Ay  with  hearts  tremulous  and  bones  that  trembled, 
Ay  with  cleft  tongues,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  flame. 


FREDERICK  \V.  //.  MYERS. 

Witness  the  men  whom  with  a  word  He  gaineth, 
Bold  who  were  base  and  voiceful  who  were  dumb: 

Battle,  I  know,  so  long  as  life  remaineth, 
Battle  for  all,  hut  these  have  overcome. 


Witness  the  women,  of  his  children  sweetest, — 
Scarcely  earth  seeth  them  but  earth  shall  see,- 

Thou  in  their  woe  thine  agony  completcst, 
Christ,  and  their  solitude  is  nigh  to  thee. 


What  is  this  psalm  from  pitiable  places 

Glad  where  the  messengers  of  peace  have  trod: 

Whose  are  these  beautiful  and  holy  faces 
Lit  with  their  loving  and  aflame  with  God? 


Eager  and  faint,  empassionate  and  lonely, 
These  in  their  hour  shall  prophesy  again  : 

This  is  his  will  who  hath  endured,  and  only 
Sendeth  the  promise  where  He  sends  the  pain. 


Ay  unto  these  distributeth  the  Giver 

Sorrow  and  sanctity,  and  loves  them  well, 

Grants  them  a  power  and  passion  to  deliver 

Hearts  from  the  prison-house  and  souls  from  hell. 


Thinking  hereof  I  wot  not  if  the  portal 

Opeth  already  to  my  Lord  above  : 
Lo  there  is  no  more  mortal  and  immortal, 

Naught  is  on  earth  or  in  the  heavens  but  love. 


?S2  FREDERICK  IV.  H.  MYERS. 

Hark  what  a  sound,  and  too  divine  for  hearing, 
Stirs  on  the  earth  and  trembles  in  the  air ! 

Is  it  the  thunder  of  the  Lord's  appearing  ? 
Is  it  the  music  of  his  people's  prayer  ? 


Surely  he  cometh,  and  a  thousand  voices 

Shout  to  the  saints  and  to  the  deaf  are  dumb ; 

Surely  he  cometh,  and  the  earth  rejoices, 

Glad  in  his  coming  who  hath  sworn,  I  come. 


This  hath  he  done,  and  shall  we  not  adore  him  ? 

This  shall  he  do,  and  can  we  still  despair  ? 
Come  let  us  quickly  fling  ourselves  before  him, 

Cast  at  his  feet  the  burthen  of  our  care, 


Flash  from  our  eyes  the  glow  of  our  thanksgiving, 
Glad  and  regretful,  confident  and  calm, 

Then  thro'  all  life  and  what  is  after  living 
Thrill  to  the  tireless  music  of  a  psalm. 


Yea  thro?  life,  death,  thro'  sorrow  and  thro'  sinning 
He  shall  suffice  me,  for  he  hath  sufficed : 

Christ  is  the  end,  for  Christ  was  the  beginning, 
Christ  the  beginning,  for  the  end  is  Christ. 


HARD  BAXTER.  253 


CXXXVIII. 

T  II  E     E  X  I  T. 

My  soul  go  boldly  forth, 
Forsake  this  sinful  earth, 
What  hath  it  been  to  thee 

But  pain  and  sorrow, 
And  think'st  thou  it  will  be 

Better  to-morrow  ? 

Love  not  this  darksome  womb, 
Nor  yet  a  gilded  tomb, 
Though  on  it  written  be 

Mortal  men's  story, 
Look  up  by  faith  and  see 

Sure,  joyful  glory. 

Why  art  thou  for  delay  ? 
Thou  cam'st  not  here  to  stay : 
What  tak'st  thou  for  thy  part 

But  heavenly  pleasure  ? 
Where  then  should  be  thy  heart, 

But  where's  thy  treasure  ? 

Thy  God,  thy  head's  above  ; 
There  is  the  world  of  love  ; 


254  RICHARD  BAXTER. 

Mansions  there  purchased  are, 
By  Christ's  own  merit, 

For  these  he  doth  prepare 
Thee  by  his  Spirit. 

Look  up  towards  heaven,  and  see 
How  vast  those  regions  be, 
Where  blessed  spirits  dwell, 

How  pure  and  lightful  ! 
But  earth  is  near  to  Hell, 

How  dark  and  frightful ! 


Here  life  doth  strive  with  death, 
To  lengthen  mortals'  breath  ; 
Till  our  short  race  be  run, 

Which  would  be  ended, 
WThen  it  is  but  begun, 

If  not  defended. 

Here  life  is  but  a  spark 
Scarce  shining  in  the  dark  \ 
Life  is  the  element  there, 

Which  souls  reside  in  ; 
Much  like  as  air  is  here, 

Which  we  abide  in. 

Hither  thou  cam'st  from  thence 

The  divine  influence 

In  flesh  my  soul  did  place 

Among  the  living  : 
To  be  of  human  race 

Was  his  free  giving. 


RICHARD  BAXTER, 

There  I  shall  know  God  more, 
There  is  the  blessed  choir; 

Xo  wickedness  comes  there, 

All  there  is  holy : 
There  is  no  grief  or  fear, 

No  sin  or  folly. 

Jerusalem  above, 
Glorious  in  light  and  love, 
Is  mother  of  us  all, 

Who  shall  enjoy  them, 
The  wicked  Hell-ward  fall 

Sin  will  destroy  them. 

O  blessed  company, 
Where  all  in  harmony, 
Jehovah's  praises  sing 

Still  without  ceasing  : 
And  all  obey  their  King, 

With  perfect  pleasing. 

God  there  is  the  saints'  rest, 
God  is  their  constant  feast  \ 
He  doth  them  feed  and  bless 

With  love  and  favour, 
Of  which  they  still  possess 

The  pleasant  savour. 


God  is  essential  love, 
And  all  the  saints  above 


25 6  RICHARD  BAXTER. 

Are  like  unto  him  made, 
Each  in  his  measure  : 

Love  is  their  life  and  trade, 
Their  constant  pleasure. 

Love  flames  in  every  breast, 
The  greatest  and  the  least  \ 
Strangers  to  this  sweet  life 

There  are  not  any. 
Love  leaves  no  place  for  strife ; 

Makes  one  of  many. 

Each  is  to  other  dear, 
No  malice  enters  there  \ 
No  siding  difference  \ 

No  hurt,  no  evil  \ 
Because  no  ignorance, 

No  sin,  no  devil. 

What  joy  must  there  needs  be, 
Where  all  God's  glory  see ; 
Feeling  God's  vital  love, 

Which  still  is  burning  : 
And  flaming  God -ward  move, 

Full  love  returning. 

Self  makes  contention  here, 
Love  makes  all  common  there, 
There's  no  propriety, 

Mine  is  my  brother's. 
Perfect  community 

Makes  one's  another's. 


klCHARD  BAXTER.  257 

do  out  then,  lingering  soul, 
From  this  vile  serpent's  hole  ; 
Where  bred  as  in  a  sink, 

They  hiss  and  sting  us  : 
Will  not  Christ,  dost  thou  think, 

To  better  brinir  us? 


Think  not  that  heaven  wants  store, 
Think  not  that  hell  hath  more, 
If  all  on  earth  were  lost  : 

Earth's  scarce  one  tittle 
To  the  vast  heavens  :  at  most, 

Exceeding  little. 

All  those  blest  myriads  be, 
Lovers  of  Christ  and  thee  j 
Angels  thy  presence  wish, 

Christ  will  receive  thee  ; 
Then  let  not  brutish  flesh 

Fright  and  deceive  thee. 


Gladly,  my  soul,  go  forth ; 
Is  heaven  of  no  more  worth 
Than  this  curst  desert  is, 

This  world  of  trouble  ? 
Prefer  eternal  bliss 

Before  this  bubble. 


Wish  not  still  for  delay, 
Why  wouldst  thou  longer  stay 
iS 


2-3  RICHARD  BAXTER. 

From  Christ,  from  hope  so  far 

In  self-denial  : 
And  live  in  longer  war, 

A  life  of  trial  ? 

Souls  live  when  flesh  lies  dead  : 

Thy  sin  is  pardoned, 

When  Christ  doth  death  disarm, 

Why  art  thou  fearful  ? 
And  souls  that  fear  no  harm 

Should  pass  forth  cheerful. 

Cherish  not  causeless  doubt, 
That  God  will  shut  thee  out  : 
What  if  he  thee  assured 

From  Heaven  by  letter  ? 
His  Son,  his  Spirit,  and  Word 

Have  done  it  better. 

Hath  mercy  made  life  sweet  ? 
And  is  it  kind  and  meet 
Thus  to  draw7  back  from  God, 

Who  doth  protect  thee  ? 
Look  then  for  his  sharp  rod, 

Next  to  correct  thee. 

What  if  foes  should  make  haste  ? 
Thou  wilt  the  sooner  taste 
What  all  blest  souls  enjoy 

With  Christ  for  ever  • 
Where  those  that  thee  annoy, 

Shall  hurt  thee  never. 


RICHARD  BAXTER. 

Fear  not  the  world  uf  light, 
Though  out  of  mortal's  sight, 
As  if  it  doubtful  were, 

For  want  of  seeing  ; 

s  bodies  vilest  are, 

And  the  least  being. 

Vain,  sinful  world,  tare  well  ! 
I  go  where  angels  dwell ; 
Whose  life,  light,  love,  and  joy, 

Are  the  saint's  glory  : 
God's  praises  there  employ 

The  Consistory. 

Christ,  who  knows  all  his  sheep, 
Will  all  in  safety  keep  ; 
He  will  not  lose  his  blood, 

Xor  intercession  : 
Nor  we  the  purchased  good 

Of  his  dear  passion. 

I  know  my  God  is  jubt, 

To  him  I  wholly  trust ; 
All  that  I  have,  and  am, 

All  that  I  hope  for  : 
All's  sure  and  seen  to  him, 

Which  I  here  grope  for. 

Lord  Jesus,  take  my  spirit, 

I  trust  thy  life  and  merit ; 

Take  home  this  wandering  sheep, 

For  thou  hast  sought  it : 
This  soul  in  safety  keep, 

For  thou  hast  bought  it. 


260  THOMAS  TORE  LYNCH. 


CXXXIX. 
THE   HEART   OF   CHRIST. 

Heart  of  Christ,  0  cup  most  golden, 
Brimming  with  salvation's  wine, 

Million  souls  have  been  beholden 
Unto  thee  for  life  divine ; 

Thou  art  full  of  blood  the  purest, 

Love  the  tenderest  and  surest  : 

Blood  is  life,  and  life  is  love ; 

O  !  what  wine  is  there  like  love? 

Heart  of  Christ,  O  cup  most  golden, 

Out  of  thee  the  martyrs  drank, 
Who  for  truth  in  cities  olden 

Spake,  nor  from  the  torture  shrank ; 
Saved  they  were  from  traitor's  meanness, 
Filled  with  joys  of  holy  keenness  : 
Strong  are  those  that  drink  of  love  \ 
O  !  what  wine  is  there  like  love  ? 

Heart  of  Christ,  O  cup  most  golden, 
To  remotest  place  and  time 

Thou  for  labours  wilt  embolden 
Unpresuming,  but  sublime  : 

Hearts  are  firm,  though  nerves  be  shaken, 

When  from  thee  new  life  is  taken  : 

Truth  recruits  itself  by  love  ; 

O  !  what  wine  is  there  like  love  ? 


THOMAS  TORE  I  YNCH. 

Heart  of  Christ,  0  cup  most  golden. 

Taking  of  thy  cordial  blest, 
Soon  the  sorrowful  are  folden 
In  a  gentle  healthful  rest : 
Thou  anxieties  art  casing, 
Pains  implacable  appeasing  : 
Grief  is  comforted  by  love; 
O  !  what  wine  is  there  like  love  ? 

Heart  of  Christ,  O  cup  most  golden, 
Liberty  from  thee  we  win ; 

We  who  drink,  no  more  are  holden 
By  the  shameful  cords  of  sin  ; 

Pledge  of  mercy's  sure  forgiving, 

Powers  for  a  holy  living, — 

These,  thou  cup  of  love,  art  thine  ; 

Love,  thou  art  the  mightiest  wine, 


:f>2  THOMAS  MOORE. 


CXL. 
ANGEL  OF  CHARITY. 

Angel  of  Charity,  who,  from  above, 
Comest  to  dwell  a  pilgrim  here, 

Thy  voice  is  music,  thy  smile  is  love, 
And  Pity's  soul  is  in  thy  tear. 

When  on  the  shrine  of  God  were  laid 
First-fruits  of  all  most  good  and  fair, 

That  ever  bloomed  in  Eden's  shade, 


Thine  was  the  holiest  offerinc;  ther 


& 


re. 


Hope  and  her  sister,  Faith,  were  given 

But  as  our  guides  to  yonder  sky ; 
Soon  as  they  reach  the  verge  of  heaven, 

There,  lost  in  perfect  bliss,  they  die ; 
But,  long  as  Love,  Almighty  Love, 

Shall  on  his  throne  of  thrones  abide, 
Thou,  Charity,  shalt  dwell  above, 

Smiling  for  ever  by  his  side  ! 


HORATIUS  BONAR. 


CXLI. 
MARAH  AND  ELIM. 

Exodus  xv.  23-27. 

To-day  'tis  Elim,  with  its  palms  and  wells, 
And  happy  shade  for  desert  weariness  ; 

Twas  Marah  yesterday,  all  rock  and  sand, 
Unshaded  solitude  and  bitterness. 


Yet  the  same  desert  holds  them  both ;  the  same 
Soft  breezes  wander  o'er  the  lonely  ground ; 

The  same  low  stretch  of  valley  shelters  both, 
And  the  same  mountains  compass  them  around, 


So  is  it  here  with  us  on  earth  ;  and  so 
I  do  remember  it  has  ever  been ; 

The  bitter  and  the  sweet,  the  grief  and  joy, 
Lie  near  together,  but  a  day  between. 


Sometimes  God  turns  our  bitter  into  sweet  ; 

Sometimes  he  gives  us  pleasant  water-springs  ; 
Sometimes  he  shades  us  with  his  pillar-cloud, 

And  sometimes  to  a  blessed  palm-shade  brings. 


264  HORATIUS  BONAR> 

What  matters  it  ?     The  time  will  not  be  long  ;- 
Marah  and  Elim  will  alike  be  past ; 

Our  desert-wells  and  palms  will  soon  be  done ; 
We  reach  the  city  of  our  God  at  last. 

O  happy  land  !  beyond  these  lonely  hills, 
Where  gush  in  joy  the  everlasting  springs ; 

O  holy  Paradise  !  above  these  heavens, 
Where  we  shall  end  our  desert-wanderings. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FAEER.         265 


CXLIL 

THE  THOUGHT  OF  GOD. 

The  thought  of  God,  the  thought  of  thee, 
Who  liest  in  my  heart, 
And  yet  beyond  imagined  space 
Outstretched  and  present  art, — 

The  thought  of  thee,  above,  below, 
Around  me  and  within, 
Is  more  to  me  than  health  and  wealth, 
Or  love  of  kith  and  kin. 

The  thought  of  God  is  like  the  tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  I  lie, 
And  watch  the  fleets  of  snowy  clouds 
Sail  o'er  the  silent  sky. 

'Tis  like  that  soft  invading  light, 
Which  in  all  darkness  shines, — ■ 
The  thread  that  through  life's  sombre  web 
In  golden  pattern  twines. 

It  is  a  thought  which  ever  makes 
Life's  sweetest  smiles  from  tears, 
And  is  a  daybreak  to  our  hopes, 
A  sunset  to  our  fears. 


266  FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER. 

One  while  it  bids  the  tears  to  flow, 
Then  wipes  them  from  the  eyes  \ 
Most  often  fills  our  souls  with  joy, 
And  always  sanctifies. 


Within  a  thought  so  great,  our  souls 
Little  and  modest  grow, 
And,  by  its  vastness  awed,  we  learn 
The  art  of  walking  slow. 


The  wild  flower  on  the  mossy  ground 
Scarce  bends  its  pliant  form, 
When  overhead  the  autumnal  wood 
Is  thundering  like  a  storm. 


So  is  it  with  our  humbled  souls 
Down  in  the  thought  of  God, 
Scarce  conscious  in  their  sober  peace 
Of  the  wild  storms  abroad. 


To  think  of  this  is  almost  prayer, 
And  is  outspoken  praise  ; 
And  pain  can  even  passive  thoughts 
To  actual  worship  raise. 


O  Lord  !  I  live  always  in  pain, — ■ 
My  life's  sad  undersong, — 
Pain  in  itself  not  hard  to  bear, 
But  hard  to  bear  so  lon^. 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FABER. 

Little  sometimes  weighs  more  than  mu<  h, 

When  it  has  no  relief; 

A  joyless  life  is  worse  to  bear 

Than  one  of  active  grief. 


And  yet,  O  Lord  !  a  suffering  life 
One  grand  ascent  may  dare ; 
Penance,  not  self-imposed,  can  make 
The  whole  of  life  a  prayer. 


All  murmurs  lie  inside  thy  will 
"Which  are  to  thee  addressed  ; 
To  suffer  for  thee  is  our  work, 
To  think  of  thee  our  rest. 


268  FRANCIS  QUARLES. 


CXLIIL 

"MY  BELOVED  IS  MINE,  AND  I  AM  HIS;  UK 
FEEDETH  AMONG  THE  LILIES." 

Canticles  ii.  16. 

Even  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 

That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 

And  having  ranged  and  searched  a  thousand  nooks, 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 

Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoin, — 

So  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am  \  so  He  is  mine. 

Even  so  we  met ;  and  after  long  pursuit ; 

Even  so  we  joined,  and  so  became  entire  ; 
No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax,  and  He  was  flames  of  fire  : 
Our  firm  united  souls  did  more  than  twine  ; 
So  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am  ;  so  He  is  mine. 


If  all  those  glittering  monarchs  that  command 
The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 

Should  tender  in  exchange  their  shares  of  land, 
I  would  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all : 

Their  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin ; 

The  world's  but  theirs ;  but  my  Beloved's  mine. 


Ql  ARIA 

Nay  more, — if  the  fair  i  ladies  all 

Should  heap  together  their  diviner  treasure, 
That  treasure  should  be  deemed  a  price  too  small 
To  buy  a  minute's  lease  of  half  my  pleasure  : 

not  the  sacred  wealth  of  all  the  nine 
Can  buy  my  heart  from  Him  ;  or  His,  from  being  mine. 

Nor  time,  nor  place)  nor  chance,  nor  death  can  bow 
My  least  desires  unto  the  least  remove  ; 

He's  firmly  mine  by  oath  ;  I  His  by  vow  ; 
He's  mine  by  faith,  and  I  am  His  by  love; 

He's  mine  by  water ;  I  am  His  by  wine ; 

Thus  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am  ;  thus  He  is  mine. 

He  is  my  altar, — I  His  holy  place  ; 

I  am  His  guest,  and  He  my  living  food ; 
I'm  His  by  penitence  ;  He  mine  by  grace ; 

I'm  His  by  purchase  ;  He  is  mine  by  blood  ; 
He's  my  supporting  elm,  and  I  His  vine  : 
Thus  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am ;  thus  He  is  mine. 

He  gives  me  wealth  ;  I  give  Him  all  my  vows  ; 

I  give  Him  songs  ;  He  gives  me  length  of  days  : 
With  wreaths  of  grace  he  crowns  my  conquering  brows ; 

And  I  His  temples  with  a  crown  of  Praise, 
Which  He  accepts  as  an  e'erlasting  sign 
That  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am ;  that  He  is  mine. 


2;o  R  OBER  T  HERRI  CK. 

CXLIV. 

TO  KEEP  A  TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a  fast  to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 
And  clean 
From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 
Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  hll 
The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour, 
Or  ragged  to  go, 
Or  show 
A  downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 

No  ;  'tis  a  fast  to  dole 
Thy  sheaf  of  wheat 
And  meat 
Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 
From  old  debate 
And  hate ; 
To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a  heart  grief-rent  ; 

To  starve  thy  sin, 

Not  bin ; 

And  that's  to  keep  thy  Lent. 


tGH  n  ( 


CXLV, 

ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

Anou  Bex  Adhem, — may  his  tribe  increase, — 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich,  and  like  a  lily-in-bloom, 
An  angel,  writing  in  a  book  of  gold  : 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

J  That  writest  thou  t — The  vision  raised  its  head, 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord  1 — 
And  is  mine  one  1  said  Abou. — Nay,  not  so, 
Replied  the  Angel. — Abou  spake  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still,  and  said,  I  pray  thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men. 

The  Angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 
And  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


272  SABINE  BARING-GOULD. 


CXLVI. 
THE  SULTAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

AN    OLD    FLEMISH    BALLAD. 

A  Sultan  had  a  daughter  sweet, 

And  walking  in  the  bowers, 
At  early  dawn  the  maiden  went 

Gathering  garden  flowers. 

"  O,  who  is  he  ?  "  the  damsel  asked, 
"  The  flowers  on  earth  who  shed — ■ 

The  roses  pink,  the  lilies  white, 
Hyacinths  blue  and  red  ? 

"  O,  who  is  he  ?     I  love  him  well ; 

Ah  !  wondrous  is  his  power, 
Who  made  the  blossom,  seed,  and  leaf, 

Fashioning  all  the  flower. 

"  O,  who  is  he,  that  gardener  good? 

To  him  my  heart  I  yield  \ 
For  worthy  he  to  be  beloved, 

Painting  the  summer  held." 

Then  Jesus  there  at  cockcrow  came, 

And  at  the  window  stood  \ 
"  I  come  to  take  the  maiden's  heart, 

I  am  the  gardener  ^ood." 


in/XE  &A&ING-&OULI). 

The  Sultan's  daughter  rose  and  said, 
u  Thy  like  I  have  not  seen, 

C)  gentle  Lord,  with  locks  all  wet, 
Knee-deep  in  herbage  green/1 


"O  maiden,  I  have  loved  thee  well, 

All  in  my  lather's  home; 
My  locks  are  wet  with  drops  of  night, 

As  in  the  dew  I  roam. 


11  I  come  for  thee,  to  bear  thy  soul 
To  see  my  Father's  bowers  ; 

To  realms  of  light,  where  angels  white 
Sing  in  the  land  of  flowers." 


"  With  thee  I'll  go,"  the  maiden  said, 

11  For  thee  I  love  so  well ; 
But  what  are  these  red  flowers  thou  hast  ? 

What  are  these  roses,  tell  ?  " 


He  showed  the  roses  in  his  palms, 

The  roses  on  his  feet ; 
A  blood-red  rose  was  on  his  side, 

There  where  the  heart  doth  beat. 

t:  0  these  are  wounds  I  show  to  thee, 
To  prove  I  love  thee  true  : 

I  bore  for  thee  the  nails,  the  spear, 
Piercing  my  body  through." 
i9 


274  SABINE  BARING-GOULD. 

The  Sultan  to  his  garden  came, 
There  lay  his  daughter  dead  : 

A  smile  upon  her  face,  her  arms 
Were  as  a  cross  outspread. 


RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


CXLVII. 
RETRIBUTION. 

Oh,  righteous  doom,  that  they  who  make 

Pleasure  their  only  end, 
Ordering  the  whole  life  for  its  sake, 

Miss  that  whereto  they  tend. 

While  they  who  bid  stern  duty  lead, 

Content  to  follow,  they, 
Of  duty  only  taking  heed, 

Find  pleasure  by  the  way. 


276  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BR  YAX7\ 

CXLVIII. 
HYMN  OF  THE  WALDENSES. 

Hear,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee  from  the  desert  and  the  rock ; 
While  those  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad,  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs, 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are  theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night,  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray — 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder ;  the  firm  land 
Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand  : 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 
Oh  !  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy  sons  — 
The  murderers  of  our  lives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,  mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin,  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries,  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


ROBERT  OF  FRAN 


CXI, IX. 

"COME,  HOLY  ONE,  IN  LOVE/' 

Come,  Holy  One,  in  love; 
Shed  on  us  from  above 

Thine  own  bright  ray  : 
Divinely  good  thou  art ; 
Thy  sacred  gifts  impart 
To  gladden  each  sad  heart, 

O,  come  to-day  ! 

Come,  truest  friend  and  best, 
Our  loving,  holy  guest, 

With  soothing  power ; 
Rest  which  the  weary  know, 
Shade  'mid  the  noontide  glow/ 
Peace  when  deep  griefs  o'erflow, 

Cheer  us  this  hour  ! 

Come,  Light  serene  and  still, 
Our  inmost  bosoms  fill ; 

Dwell  in  each  breast : 
We  know  no  dawn  but  thine, 
Send  forth  thy  beams  divine 
On  our  dark  souls  to  shine, 

And  make  us  blest. 


ROBERT  OF  FRANCE. 

Exalt  our  low  desires  \ 
Quench  all  unholy  fires ; 

Heal  every  wound : 
Our  stubborn  spirits  bend  ; 
Our  sinful  coldness  end ; 
Our  wandering  steps  attend, 

While  heavenward  bound. 


RICHARD   WILTON. 


CL. 

AT  HIS  FEET. 

Mary  "  sat  at  Jesus'  feet " 
Rapt  in  contemplation  sweet, 
Gazing  up  into  his  face, 
Drinking  in  his  words  of  grace. 
By  no  earthly  murmur  moved 
From  the  posture  that  she  loved  : 
Lord,  be  this  my  daily  choice, 
At  thy  feet  to  hear  thy  voice. 

Mary  "  fell  at  Jesus'  feet" 
When  her  brother,  through  the  street 
By  the  mourners  borne  away, 
Folded  in  death's  darkness  lay ; 
All  her  sorrow  forth  she  sighed, 
Christ  with  answering  groans  replied. 
Lord,  in  trouble  let  me  fall 
At  thy  feet,  and  tell  thee  all. 

Mary  stood  at  Jesus'  feet 
Offering,  as  he  sat  at  meat, 
Costly  gift  of  spikenard  rare, 
Glistening  tears,  and  flowing  hair ; 
Speechless  love  and  thanks  she  gave 
To  the  Master,  strong  to  save  : 
Lord,  when  gladness  lights  my  days, 
At  thy  feet  Fll  give  thee  praise. 


2 So  RICHARD    WILTON. 

At  thy  feet,  once  pierced  for  me, 
Always  shall  my  station  be ; 
By  thy  Spirit  and  thy  Word, 
To  thy  servant  speak,  O  Lord : 
In  my  sorrow  succour  bring  ; 
Hear  me  when  thy  praise  I  sing  \ 
Till,  'mid  Heaven's  high  joys,  at  last 
At  thy  feet  my  crown  I  cast ! 


HARTl  LE  RIDGE.  281 

CLI. 

A   CiRA(  E. 

Sweetest  Lord  !  that  wert  so  blest 
On  thy  sweetest  mother's  breast, 
Give  to  every  new-born  baby 
Food  that  needs — as  good  as  may  be. 
Jesus  !  Lord,  who  long  obey'd 
The  sainted  sire,  the  Mother  Maid, 
Teach  my  young  heart  to  submit, — ■ 
Deign  thyself  to  govern  it. 
Babe  and  boy,  and  youth  and  man, 
All  make  up  the  mighty  plan  ; 
And  these  the  Saviour  sanctified, 
For  he  was  all — and  then  he  died. 
AYhate'er  he  gives  us  we  may  take, 
But  still  receive  it  for  his  sake. 
But  might  the  prayer  within  my  breast 
Make  others  blest,  as  I  am  blest ; 
And  might  my  joy  in  thanking  thee 
Make  for  all  hungry  souls  a  plea ; 
Then  would  I  praise  and  thee  adore, 
And  ever  thank  thee,  more  and  more 
Rejoicing,  if  thou  wouldst  but  bless 
Thy  creatures  for  my  thankfulness. 


282  LORD  BYRON, 


CLII. 

THE   DESTRUCTION    OF   SENNACHERIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold  ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  se3, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for  ever  grew*  still  ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostrils  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride  : 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail  \ 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone. 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpets  unblown. 


LORD  BYRON. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  arc  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord  ! 


2  S4  HENR  Y  II A  R T  MUM.  1 X 


CLIII. 

:WIIEN  OUR  HEADS  ARE  BOWED  WITH  WOE." 

When  our  heads  are  bowed  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o'erflow ; 
When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortal  griefs  hast  borne, 
Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear : 
Gracious  son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls ; 
When  our  final  doom  is  near, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

Thou  hast  bowed  the  dying  head  \ 
Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed  \ 
Thou  hast  filled  a  mortal  bier ; 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 

When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin ; 
When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 


HENRY  HART  MILMAN.  2S5 

Thou  the  shame,  the  grief  hast  known, 
Though  the  sins  were  not  thine  own  ; 
Thou  hast  deigned  their  load  to  bear; 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear  ! 


286  JOHN  KEDLE. 


CLIV. 

THE   VISITATION   AND    COMMUNION   OF   THE 
SICK. 

0  Youth  and  Joy,  your  airy  tread 
Too  lightly  springs  by  Sorrow's  bed, 
Your  keen  eye-glances  are  too  bright, 
Too  restless  for  a  sick  man's  sight. 
Farewell :  for  one  short  life  we  part ; 

1  rather  woo  the  soothing  art, 
Which  only  souls  in  sufferings  tried 
Bear  to  their  suffering  brethren's  side. 

Where  may  we  learn  that  gentle  spell  ? 
Mother  of  martyrs,  thou  canst  tell ! 
Thou  who  didst  watch  thy  dying  Spouse 
With  pierced  hands  and  bleeding  brows, 
Whose  tears  from  age  to  age  are  shed 
O'er  sainted  sons  untimely  dead, 
If  e'er  we  charm  a  soul  in  pain, 
Thine  is  the  key-note  of  our  strain. 

How  sweet  with  thee  to  lift  the  latch, 
Where  Faith  has  kept  her  midnight  watch, 
Smiling  on  woe  :  with  thee  to  kneel, 
Where  fixed,  as  if  one  prayer  could  heal, 


JOHA   REBLE. 

She  listens,  till  her  pale  eye  glow 

With  joy  wild  health  can  never  know, 
And  each  calm  feature,  ere  we  read, 
Speaks,  silently,  thy  glorious  Creed. 


Such  have  I  seen ;  and  while  they  poured 
Their  hearts  in  every  contrite  word, 
How  have  I  rather  longed  to  kneel 
And  ask  of  them  sweet  pardon's  seal ! 
How  blessed  the  heavenly  music  brought 
By  thee  to  aid  my  faltering  thought ! 
11  Peace  !  "  ere  we  kneel,  and  when  we  cease 
To  pray,  the  farewell  word  is,  "  Peace  ! ;; 

I  came  again  ;  the  place  was  bright 
"  With  something  of  celestial  light  " — 
A  simple  altar  by  the  bed 
For  high  communion  meetly  spread, 
Chalice  and  plate  and  snowy  vest. 
We  ate  and  drank;  then  calmly  blest, 
All  mourners,  one  with  dying  breath, 
We  sat  and  talked  of  Jesus'  death. 

Once  more  I  came ;  the  silent  room 
Was  veiled  in  sadly- soothing  gloom, 
And  ready  for  her  last  abode 
The  pale  form  like  a  lily  shewed, 
By  virgin  fingers  duly  spread, 
And  prized  for  love  of  summer  fled. 
The  light  from  those  soft-smiling  eyes 
Had  fleeted  to  its  parent  skies. 


JOHN  KEBL£> 

O  soothe  us,  haunt  us,  night  and  day, 
Ye  gentle  spirits  far  away, 
With  whom  we  shared  the  cup  of  grace, 
Then  parted — ye  to  Christ's  embrace, 
We  to  the  lonesome  world  again, 
Yet  mindful  of  the  unearthly  strain 
Practised  with  you  at  Eden's  door, 
To  be  sung  on,  where  angels  soar, 
With  blended  voices  evermore. 


GEORGE  MORINE. 


CLV. 
DIRGE. 

(In  Memoriam  C.  D.  F.) 

M  Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  : 
Let  them  mingle,  for  they  must." 

i. 

Raise  the  pillow ;  smooth  the  bed  ; 
Gently  turn  that  reverend  head ; 
Shade  the  lamp,  nor  let  its  glimmer 
Vex  those  eyes  that  still  grow  dimmer - 
Dim,  and  dark,  and  dead. 

ii. 
Softly  speak,  and  lightly  tread, 
Move  like  shadows  round  the  bed : 
Let  stillness  fill  the  chambers  wholly, 
Brooding  like  a  Spirit  holy — 
Waiting  for  the  dead. 

in. 
Under  breath  let  prayer  be  said  ; 
Children  kneeling  round  the  bed  : 
Stifle  tears,  and  stifle  sorrow, 
They  will  find  their  place  to-morrow — 
Weeping  for  the  dead. 
20 


290  GEORGE  M0R1NE. 

IV. 

Life  is  fleeting ;  life  has  fled  ! 
Drop  the  curtain  round  the  bed  : 
Through  its  clay-encumbered  portal 
Wanders  forth  a  Soul  immortal — 
Dust  retains  the  dead. 

v. 

Bend  the  knee,  and  bow  the  head ; 

Let  the  last  farewell  be  said : 

So  leave  the  chamber  of  the  dead. 


SAMUEL  7AYL0R  COLERIDGE.         291 


CLVL 
HYMN. 

(Before  Sunrise  in  the  Vale  of  Cliamouni.) 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course — so  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc  ? 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form  ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass ;  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount  !     I  gazed  upon  thee 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought; 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy  ; 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enwrapt,  transfused, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE, 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstacy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  Vale  ! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink  ! 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald  !  wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
"Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 


And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad  ! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shattered,  and  the  same  for  ever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 
Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded — and  the  silence  came — 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,1  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? — 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God  !  sing,  ye  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou,  too,  hoar  Mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  Mountain  !  thou 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow-travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud, 

1  The  Genitalia  Major* 


29i  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

To  rise  before  me  !  rise,  0  ever  rise  ; 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WH1TTIER. 


CLVII. 

THE  RIVER  PATH. 

X<  i  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still; 

Xo  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
Xo  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew ; 

For  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified, — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod 
We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 


29G        JOHN  GREENLEAF  WIIITTIER. 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before  ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear  ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light  \ 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine  showed, 
A  long  slant  splendour  downward  flowed. 

Down  glade,  and  glen,  and  bank  it  rolled ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

11  So,"  prayed  we,  "  when  our  feet  draw  near 
The  river,  dark  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
Oh,  Father  !  let  thy  light  break  through  ! 

"  So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 

So  bridge  with  Faith  the  sunless  tide  ! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth ; 

11  And  in  thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below  ! n 


THOMAS  DEKKER. 


CLVIII. 

A  SOXG  OF  LABOUR. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed  ? 

Oh,  punishment ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers  ? 
Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Chorus. — Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring? 

Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears? 

Oh,  punishment  ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears, 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king  ! 
Oh,  sweet  content ! 
Chorus. — Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face. 


29S  SIX   WALTER  SCOTT 

CLIX. 
HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN. 

Ave  Maria  !     Maiden  mild  ! 

Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer  : 
Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild, 

Thou  canst  save  amid  despair. 
Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care, 

Though  banished,  outcast,  and  reviled — 
Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer  ; 

Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child  ! 
Ave  Maria  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  undefiled  ! 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share, 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled, 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 
The  murky  cavern's  heavy  air 

Shall  breathe  of  balm  if  thou  hast  smiled  : 
Then,  Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer, 

-Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child  ! 
Ave  Maria  ! 

Ave  Maria  !  stainless  child  ! 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air, 
From  this  their  wonted  haunt  exiled, 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 
We  bow  us  to  our  lot  of  care, 

Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled  : 
Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer, 

And  for  a  father  hear  a  child  ! 
Ave  Maria  ! 


HRRTCK  WILLIAM  FARRAR. 


CLX. 

IN  THE  FIELD  WITH  THEIR  FLOCKS  ABIDING. 

In  the  field  with  their  flocks  abiding, 

They  lay  on  the  dewy  ground  ; 
And  glimmering  under  the  starlight 

The  sheep  lay  white  around  ; 
When  the  light  of  the  Lord  streamed  o'er  them, 

And  lo  !  from  the  heaven  above 
An  angel  leaned  from  the  glory, 
And  sang  his  song  of  love  : — 

He  sang  that  first  sweet  Christmas, 

The  song  that  shall  never  cease — ■ 
"  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 
On  earth  good-will  and  peace/' 

"  To  you  in  the  city  of  David 
A  Saviour  is  born  to-day  !  " 
And  sudden  a  host  of  the  heavenly  ones 

Flashed  forth  to  join  the  lay  ! 
O  never  hath  sweeter  message 

Thrilled  home  to  the  souls  of  men, 
And  the  heavens  themselves  had  never  heard 
A  gladder  choir  till  then, — 

For  they  sang  that  Christmas  carol 

That  never  on  earth  shall  cease — ■ 
li  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 
On  earth  good-will  and  peace." 


300        FREDERICK  WILLIAM  FARRAR. 

And  the  shepherds  came  to  the  manger, 
And  gazed  on  the  Holy  Child, 
And  calmly  o'er  that  rude  cradle 

The  Virgin  Mother  smiled  ; 
And  the  sky,  in  the  starlit  silence, 

Seemed  full  of  the  angel  lay  : 
"  To  you  in  the  city  of  David 
A  Saviour  is  born  to-day ;  " 

Oh,  they  sang — and  I  ween  that  never 

The  carol  on  earth  shall  cease — 
11  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest, 
On  earth  good-will  and  peace." 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTIi  301 


CI  ! 
ADVENT. 

This  Advent  moon  shines  cold  and  clear, 

These  Advent  nights  are  long ; 
Our  lamps  have  burned  year  after  year, 

And  still  their  flame  is  strong. 
"  Watchman,  what  of  the  night?  "  we  cry, 

Heart-sick  with  hope  deferred. 
"  Xo  speaking  signs  are  in  the  sky," 

Is  still  the  watchman's  word. 


The  porter  watches  at  the  gate, 

The  servants  watch  within  ; 
The  watch  is  long  betimes,  and  late  ; 

The  prize  is  slow  to  win. 
"Watchman,  what  of  the  night?"  but  still 

His  answer  sounds  the  same  ; 
"  The  daybreak  tops  the  utmost  hill, 

Nor  pale  our  lamps  of  flame." 


One  to  another  hear  them  speak, 
The  patient  virgins  wise  : 

Surely  He  is  not  far  to  seek  ; 
All  night  we  watch  and  rise. 


3o2  CHRISTINA  ROSSETTL 

The  days  are  evil,  looking  back, 
The  coming  days  are  dim  \ 

Yet  count  we  not  his  promise  slack, 
But  watch  and  wait  for  him. 


One  with  another,  soul  with  soul, 

They  kindle  fire  from  fire ; 
"  Friends  watch  us  who  have  touched  the  goal ; 

They  urge  us,  come  up  higher." 
"  With  them  shall  rest  our  waysore  feet ; 

With  them  is  built  our  home — ■ 
With  Christ  !  "     "  They  sweet,  but  He  most  sweet, 

Sweeter  than  honeycomb.*' 

There  no  more  parting,  no  more  pain  \ 

The  distant  ones  brought  near 
The  lost  so  long  are  found  again — 

Long  lost,  but  longer  dear. 
Eye  hath  not  seen,  ear  hath  not  heard, 

Nor  heart  conceived  that  Rest : 
With  them  our  good  things  long  deferred — 

With  Jesus  Christ,  our  Best. 

We  weep,  because  the  night  is  long ; 

We  laugh,  for  day  shall  rise  ; 
We  sing  a  slow,  contented  song, 

And  knock  at  Paradise. 
Weeping,  we  hold  him  fast  who  wept 

For  us,  we  hold  him  fast ; 
And  will  not  let  him  go,  except 

He  bless  us  first  or  last. 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  303 

Weeping,  wo  hold  him  fast  to-night : 

We  will  not  let  him  go 
Till  daybreak  smite  our  wearied  sight, 

And  summer  smite  the  snow. 
Then  figs  shall  bud,  and  dove  with  d 

Shall  coo  the  live-long  day  ; 
Then  He  shall  say,  "  Arise,  my  L 

My  fair  One — come  away." 


3o4  THOMAS  CAMPBELL. 


CLXII. 

THE  NATIVITY. 

When  Jordan  hushed  his  waters  still, 
And  silence  slept  on  Zion  hill ; 
When  Salem's  shepherds  through  the  night 
Watched  o'er  their  flocks  by  starry  light : 

Hark  !  from  the  midnight  hills  around, 
A  voice,  of  more  than  mortal  sound, 
In  distant  hallelujahs  stole, 
Wild  murmuring  o'er  the  raptured  soul. 

Then  swift  to  every  startled  eye, 
New  streams  of  glory  gild  the  sky  \ 
Heaven  bursts  her  azure  gates,  to  pour 
Her  spirits  to  the  midnight  hour. 

On  Wheels  of  light,  on  wings  of  flame, 
The  glorious  hosts  to  Zion  came ; 
High  heaven  with  songs  of  triumph  rung, 
While  thus  they  smote  their  harps  and  sung 

O  Zion  !  lift  thy  raptured  eye, 
The  long-expected  hour  is  nigh ; 
The  joys  of  nature  rise  again, 
The  Prince  of  Salem  comes  to  reign  ! 


THOMAS  CAMPBE  305 

Mercy,  from  her  golden  urn, 
Pours  a  rich  stream  to  them  that  mourn  ; 
Behold,  she  binds  with  tender  care. 
The  bleeding  bosom  of  despair. 


He  comes  to  cheer  the  trembling  heart, 
Bids  Satan  and  his  host  depart ; 
Again  the  day-star  gilds  the  gloom, 
Again  the  bowers  of  Eden  bloom  ! 


O  Zion  !  lift  thy  raptured  eye, 
The  long-expected  hour  is  nigh ; 
The  joys  of  nature  rise  again, 
The  Prince  of  Salem  comes  to  reisfn. 


306  THOMAS  CARLYLE. 


CLXIIL 

TO-DAY. 

So  here  hath  been  dawning 
Another  blue  Day  : 
Think  wilt  thou  let  it 
Slip  useless  away  ? 

Out  of  Eternity 

This  new  Day  is  born ; 

Into  Eternity, 

At  night,  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime 
No  eye  ever  did  : 
So  soon  it  for  ever 
From  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Here  hath  been  dawning 
Another  blue  Day  : 
Think  wilt  thou  let  it 
Slip  useless  away  ? 


JOHN  WESLEY, 


CLXIV. 

THE  PRESENCE  OF  GOD. 


Lo  !  God  is  here  !  Let  us  adore, 
And  own  how  dreadful  is  this  place  ! 

Let  all  within  us  feel  his  power, 
And  silent  bow  before  his  face  ! 

Who  know  his  power,  his  grace  who  prove, 

Serve  him  with  awe,  with  reverence  love. 


Lo  !  God  is  here  !  Him  day  and  night 
The  united  choirs  of  angels  sing  : 

To  him,  enthroned  above  all  height, 

Heaven's  hosts  their  noblest  praises  brings 

Disdain  not,  Lord,  our  meaner  song, 

Who  praise  thee  with  a  stammering  tongue. 


Gladly  the  toys  of  earth  we  leave, 

Wealth,  pleasure,  fame,  for  thee  alone : 

To  thee  our  will,  soul,  flesh,  we  give  ; 
O  take,  O  seal  them  for  thine  own  : 

Thou  art  the  God  !  Thou  art  the  Lord  ! 

Be  thou  by  all  thy  works  adored. 


3o3  JOHN  WESLEY. 

Being  of  beings,  may  our  praise 

Thy  courts  with  grateful  fragrance  fill ; 

Still  may  we  stand  before  thy  face, 
Still  hear  and  do  thy  sovereign  will : 

To  thee  may  all  our  thoughts  arise, 

Ceaseless,  accepted  sacrifice ! 

In  thee  we  move  :  all  things  of  thee 
Are  full,  thou  Source  and  Life  of  all — 

Thou  vast,  unfathomable  Sea  ! 
Fall  prostrate,  lest  in  wonder  fall, 

Ye  sons  of  men  ;  for  God  is  Man  : 

All  may  we  lose,  so  thee  we  gain  ! 

As  flowers  their  opening  leaves  display, 
And  glad  drink  in  the  solar  fire, 

So  may  we  catch  thy  every  ray, 
So  may  thy  influence  us  inspire  : 

Thou  Beam  of  the  eternal  Beam  ! 

Thou  purging  Fire  !  Thou  quickening  Flame  ! 


GE(  BERT.  309 


CLXV, 

EASTER  DAY. 

I  got  me  flowers  to  strew  thy  way, 
I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree  ; 

Eut  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

The  sun  arising  in  the  East, 

Though  he  give  light,  and  the  East  perfume, 
If  they  should  offer  to  contest 

With  thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this, 

Though  many  suns  to  shine  endeavour  ? 
We  count  three  hundred,  but  we  miss  : 

There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 


3io  GEORGE  SANDYS. 


CLXVI. 
FROM  THE  "  PARAPHRASE  UPON  LUKE  I. 

(Verses  68-79.) 

O  praise  the  Lord,  his  wonders  tell, 

Whose  mercy  shines  in  Israel, 

At  length  redeemed  from  sin  and  hell 

The  crown  of  our  salvation, 
Derived  from  David's  royal  throne, 
He  now  hath  tohis  people  shown. 

This  to  his  prophets  did  unfold, 
By  all  successively  foretold, 
Until  the  infant  world  grew  old, 

That  He  our  wrongs  would  vindicate, 
Save  from  our  foes'  inveterate  hate, 
And  raise  our  long  depressed  estate. 

To  ratify  his  ancient  deed, 

His  promised  grace,  by  oath  decreed, 

To  Abraham  and  his  faithful  seed. 

That  we  might  our  Preserver  praise, 
Walk  purely  in  his  perfect  ways, 
And  fearless  serve  him  all  our  days. 


GEORGE  SANDYS.  311 

His  path  thou  shalt  prepare,  sweet  Child, 
And  run  before  the  Undefiled, 
And  Prophet  of  the  Almighty  styled. 

Our  knowledge  to  inform,  from  whence 
Salvation  springs  :  from  penitence, 
And  pardon  of  each  foul  offence. 

Through  mercy,  O  how  infinite  ! 

Of  our  Great  God,  who  clears  our  sight, 

And  from  the  Orient  sheds  his  light. 

A  leading  Star  to  enlighten  those 
Whom  night  and  shades  of  death  inclose, 
Which  that  high  track  to  glory  shows. 


3  1 2  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


CLXVIL 

HOW  ARE  THY  SERVANTS  BLEST,  O  LORD. 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  0  Lord, 

How  sure  is  their  defence  ! 
Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care, 
Through  burning  climes  I  passed  unhurt, 

And  breathed  the  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  toil, 

Made  every  region  please ; 
The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed, 

And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  oh,  my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes, 
Thou  saw'st  the  wide  extended  deep 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face, 

And  fear  in  every  heart ; 
When  wave  on  wave,  and  gulf  on  gulf, 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 


Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  ()  Lord, 
Thy  men  y  set  me  free, 

Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  prayer, 
My  faith  took  hold  on  thee. 

For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung, 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea,  that  roared  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death, 

Thy  goodness  I'll  adore, 
And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past, 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  thou  preserv'st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be  ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


3i4  JAMES  MONTGOMER  Y. 


CLXVIII. 

A  POOR  WAYFARING  MAN  OF  GRIEF. 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief 

Hath  often  crossed  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 

That  I  could  never  answer,  Nay  ; 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name, 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came, 
Yet  there  was  something  in  his  eye 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 


Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 

He  entered  ;    not  a  word  he  spake ; 
Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread  ; 

I  gave  him  all ;  he  blessed  it,  brake, 
And  ate  ;  but  gave  me  part  again  : 
Mine  was  an  angel's  portion  then ; 
For,  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste, 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 


I  spied  him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ;  his  strength  was  gone  ; 
The  heedless  water  mocked  his  thirst, 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on  j 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up  ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drained  my  cup, 

Dipt,  and  returned  it  running  o'er  : 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 


Twas  night;  the  floods  were  out;  it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 
I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof; 
I  warmed,  I  clothed,  I  cheered  my  guest, 
Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest  ; 
Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seemed 
In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dreamed. 


Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 

I  found  him  by  the  highway-side  : 
I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath, 

Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  healed  : 
I  had  myself  a  wound  concealed  ; 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 
And  peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I  saw  him  next,  condemned 
To  meet  a  traitor's  death  at  morn  : 

The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemmed, 

And  honoured  him  'mid  shame  and  scorn 

My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try, 

He  asked,  if  I  for  him  would  die  ? 

The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill ; 

But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "I  will,'' 


j  t  6  JAMES  MONTGOMER  V. 

Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view 

The  Stranger  darted  from  disguise ; 

The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew, 
My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes  ! 

He  spake  ;  and  my  poor  name  he  named,- 

"  Of  me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed  ; 

These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be  ; 

Fear  not ;  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 


WALTl  I'T. 


IX. 

"DIES  HUE,  DIES  ILLA." 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinner's  stay, — - 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day  ? 
When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead  : 

O  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day, 
When  man  to  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinner's  stay, 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away  ! 


ISAAC  WATTS. 


CLXX. 

THE  CHARACTER  OF  CHRIST. 

Go,  worship  at  Immanuel's  feet ; 
See,  in  his  face  what  wonders  meet ; 
Earth  is  too  narrow  to  express 
His  wrorth,  his  glory,  or  his  grace ! 

The  whole  creation  can  afford 
But  some  faint  shadows  of  my  Lord ; 
Nature,  to  make  his  beauties  known, 
Must  mingle  colours  not  her  own. 

Is  he  compared  to  wine  or  bread  ? 
Dear  Lord,  our  souls  would  thus  be  fed  : 
That  flesh,  that  dying  blood  of  thine, 
Is  bread  of  life,  is  heavenly  wine. 

Is  he  a  tree  ?     The  world  receives 
Salvation  from  his  healing  leaves : 
That  righteous  Branch,  that  fruitful  bough, 
Is  David's  root  and  offspring  too. 

Is  he  a  rose  ?     Not  Sharon  yields 
Such  fragrancy  in  all  her  fields  : 
Or  if  the  lily  he  assume, 
The  valleys  bless  the  rich  perfume. 


ISAAC    I  WITTS. 

Is  he  a  vine  ?     1  lis  heavenly  root 
Supplies  the  boughs  with  life  and  fruit  : 
Oh,  may  a  lasting  union  join 
My  soul  to  Christ,  the  living  vine  ! 


Is  he  the  head  ?     Each  member  lives, 
And  owns  the  vital  power  he  gives  ; 
The  saints  below,  and  saints  above, 
Joined  by  his  Spirit  and  his  Love. 

Is  he  a  fountain  ?     There  I  bathe, 
And  heal  the  plague  of  sin  and  death  ; 
These  waters  all  my  soul  renew, 
And  cleanse  my  spotted  garments  too. 


Is  he  a  fire  ?     He'll  purge  my  dross  \ 
But  the  true  gold  sustains  no  loss  : 
Like  a  refiner  shall  he  sit, 
And  tread  the  refuse  with  his  feet. 


Is  he  a  rock  ?     How  firm  he  proves  ! 
The  Rock  of  Ages  never  moves, 
Yet  the  sweet  streams  that  from  him  flow, 
Attend  us  all  the  desert  through. 


Is  he  a  way  ?     He  leads  to  God  ; 
The  path  is  drawn  in  lines  of  blood  ; 
There  would  I  walk  with  hope  and  zeal. 
Till  I  arrive  at  Sion's  hill. 


ISAAC  WATTS. 

Is  he  a  door  ?     I'll  enter  in  ; 

Behold  the  pastures  large  and  green  ! 

A  paradise  divinely  fair ; 

None  but  the  sheep  have  freedom  there. 


Is  he  designed  a  corner-stone, 
For  men  to  build  their  heaven  upon  ? 
I'll  make  him  my  foundation  too, 
Nor  fear  the  plots  of  hell  below. 

Is  he  a  temple  ?     I  adore 
The  in-dwelling  majesty  and  power  : 
And  still  to  this  most  holy  place 
Whene'er  I  pray,  I  turn  my  face. 


Is  he  a  star  ?     He  breaks  the  night, 
Piercing  the  shades  with  dawning  1 
I  know  his  glories  from  afar, 
I  know  the  bright,  the  morning  star. 


Is  he  a  sun  ?     His  beams  are  grace, 
His  course  is  joy  and  righteousness  : 
Nations  rejoice  when  he  appears 
To  chase  their  clouds,  and  dry  their  tears. 


O  let  me  climb  those  higher  skies 
Where  storms  and  darkness  never  rise  ! 
There  he  displays  his  powers  abroad, 
And  shines  and  reisns  the  incarnate  God. 


ISAAC  WATTS. 

Nor  earth,  nor  seas,  nor  sun,  nor  star, 
Nor  heaven  his  full  resemblance  I 
His  beauties  we  ran  never  trace, 

Till  we  behold  him  face  to  face. 


22 


1 2  2  WILLIAM  CO  J  J  TER. 


CLXXI. 
RETIREMENT. 

Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee, 
From  strife  and  tumult  far ; 

From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 
His  most  successful  war. 

The  calm  retreat,  the  silent  shade, 
With  prayer  and  praise  agree, 

And  seem  by  thy  sweet  bounty  made 
For  those  who  follow  thee. 

There  if  thy  spirit  touch  the  soul, 
And  grace  her  mean  abode, 

Oh,  with  what  peace,  and  joy,  and  love, 
She  communes  with  her  God  ! 

There,  like  the  nightingale,  she  pours 

Her  solitary  lays, 
Nor  asks  a  witness  of  her  song, 

Nor  thirsts  for  human  praise. 

Author  and  guardian  of  my  life, 
Sweet  source  of  light  divine, 

And — all  harmonious  names  in  one — 
My  Saviour  !  thou  art  mine  ! 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 

What  thanks  I  owe  thee,  and  what  love  - 
A  boundless,  endless  store — 

Shall  echo  through  the  realms  above 
When  time  shall  be  no  more. 


324  JOHN  MILT  OX. 


CLXXII. 

MORNING    HYMN. 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent  of  good, 

Almighty,  thine  this  universal  frame, 

Thus  wondrous  fair, — thyself  how  wondrous  then  ! 

Unspeakable,  who  sit'st  above  these  heavens 

To  us  invisible,  or  dimly  seen 

In  these  thy  lowest  works ;  yet  these  declare 

Thy  goodness  beyond  thought,  and  power  divine. 

Speak  ye  who  best  can  tell,  ye  sons  of  light, 

Angels,  for  ye  behold  him,  and  with  songs 

And  choral  symphonies,  day  without  night, 

Circle  his  throne  rejoicing  ;  ye  in  heaven, 

On  earth  join  all  ye  creatures  to  extol 

Him  first,  him  last,  him  midst,  and  without  end. 

Fairest  of  stars,  last  in  the  train  of  night, 

If  better  thou  belong  not  to  the  dawn, 

Sure  pledge  of  day,  that  crown'st  the  smiling  morn 

With  thy  bright  circlet,  praise  him  in  thy  sphere, 

While  day  arises,  that  sweet  hour  of  prime. 

Thou  sun,  of  this  great  world  both  eye  and  soul, 

Acknowledge  him  thy  greater,  sound  his  praise 

In  thy  eternal  course,  both  when  thou  climb'st, 

And  when  high  noon  hast  gained,  and  when  thou  fall'st. 

Moon,  that  now  meet'st  the  orient  sun,  now  fly'st 

With  the  fixed  stars,  fixed  in  their  orb  that  flies, 

And  ye  five  other  wandering  fires  that  move 


JOJ IX  MILTON. 

In  mystic  dance  not  without  son-,  resound 
His  praise,  who  out  of  darkness  called  up  light. 

Air,  and  ye  elements,  the  eldest  birth 

Of  Nature's  womb,  that  in  quaternion  run 

Perpetual  circle,  multiform  j  and  mix 

And  nourish  all  things  ;  let  your  ceaseless  change 

Vary  to  our  great  Maker  still  new  praise. 

Ye  mists  and  exhalations  that  now  rise, 

From  hill  or  steaming  lake,  dusky  or  grey, 

Till  the  sun  paint  your  fleecy  skirts  with  gold, 

In  honour  to  the  world's  great  author  rise 

Whether  to  deck  with  clouds  the  uncoloured  sky, 

Or  wet  the  thirsty  earth  with  falling  showers, 

Rising  or  falling  still  advance  his  praise. 

His  praise,  ye  winds,  that  from  four  quarters  blow, 

Breathe  soft  or  loud ;  and  wave  your  tops,  ye  pines, 

With  every  plant,  in  sign  of  worship  wave. 

Fountains  and  ye,  that  warble,  as  ye  flow, 

Melodious  murmurs,  warbling  tune  his  praise. 

Join  voices,  all  ye  living  souls ;  ye  birds, 

That  singing  up  to  heaven-gate  ascend, 

Bear  on  your  wings  and  in  your  notes  his  praise. 

Ye  that  in  waters  glide,  and  ye  that  wralk 

The  earth,  and  stately  tread,  or  lowly  creep  ; 

Witness  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even, 

To  hill,  or  valley,  fountain,  or  fresh  shade 

Made  vocal  by  my  song,  and  taught  his  praise. 

Hail,  universal  Lord,  be  bounteous  still 

To  give  us  only  good ;  and  if  the  night 

Have  gathered  ought  of  evil  or  concealed, 

Disperse  it,  as  now  light  dispels  the  dark. 


ELIZABETH  B ARRET!  BROWNING, 


CLXXIII. 
"HE    GIVETH    HIS    BELOVED,    SLEEP." 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  arc 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this — 
"  He  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep  "  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's,  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ? — 
He  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake. 

He  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  "  we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 


Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep. 
But  never  doleful  d  lin 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 
He  giv<  th  his  ]  leep, 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  no' 

C)  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 

O  delved  gold,  the  waiter's  heap  ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill ; 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
He  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — ■ 
u  He  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep." 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 

Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 

Would  childlike  on  his  love  repose, 

Who  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep. 


328     ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BRO  WNING. 

And  friends,  dear  friends, — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  One,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  u  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall ; 
He  giveth  his  beloved,  sleep." 


N  O  T  I",  s . 


Page  I.  These  stanzas  form  the  "Introduction"  to  Blake's  Songs 
of  Experience.  "That  strange  interfusion  of  sweetness  and  strength," 
writes  Mr.  Pater,  "is  not  to  be  found  in  those  who  claimed  to  be  his 
(Michelangelo's)  followers;  but  it  is  found  in  many  of  those  who  worked 
before  him,  and  in  many  others  down  to  our  own  time — in  William 
Blake,  for  instance,  and  Victor  Hugo,  who,  though  not  of  his  school, 
and  unaware,  are  his  true  sons,  and  help  us  to  understand  him,  as  he 
in  turn  interprets  and  justifies  them"  (The  Renaissance,  p.  104). 

Page  3.  Wordsworth's  Ode  To  Duty  has  not  been  so  popular, 
or  so  much  praised,  as  his  Ode  on  lnti?nations  of  Immortality  from 
Recollections  of  Childhood,  yet  many  competent  judges  consider  it  the 
finer  poem.  Mr.  Swinburne,  for  instance,  in  an  article  in  the  Nine- 
teenth Century,  observes,  "I  should  place  on  the  one  hand  the  OdetoDuty, 
on  the  other  hand  the  Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  as  instances 
of  decisive  and  perfect  success,  high — upon  the  whole — above  the  Ode  on 
Intimations  of  Immortality ."  Not  so  Rossetti,  however : — "I  remember," 
writes  Mr.  Hall  Caine  in  his  Recollections  of  Rossetti,  "  that  some  time 
in  March  of  the  year  in  which  he  (Rossetti)  died,  Mr.  Theodore  Watts, 
who  was  paying  one  of  his  many  visits  to  see  him  in  his  last  illness  at 
the  seaside,  touched,  in  conversation,  upon  the  power  of  Wordsworth's 
style  in  its  higher  vein,  and  instanced  a  noble  passage  in  the  Ode  to 
Duty.  Mr.  Watts  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  strength  and  simplicity, 
the  sonorousness  and  stately  march  of  these  lines  ;  and  numbered  them, 
I  think,  among  the  noblest  verses  yet  written,  for  every  highest  quality 
of  style.  But  Rossetti  was  unyielding,  and  though  he  admitted  the  beauty 
of  the  passage,  and  was  ungrudging  in  his  tribute  to  another  passage 
which  I  had  instanced,  he  would  not  allow  that  Wordsworth  ever  pos- 
sessed a  grasp  of  the  great  style." 


330  NOTES. 

Page  9.  It  is  somewhat  surprising  to  find  that  none  of  Faber's 
hymns  are  included  in  Lord  Sclborne's  Book  of  Praise,  nor  are  any  of 
them  to  be  found  in  the  excellent  collection  of  English  Sacred  Lyrics 
published  by  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul,  Trench,  and  Co.,  in  their  Parchment 
Library  series.  But  although  this  poem,  The  Eternity  of  God,  is  un- 
questionably a  fine  composition,  and  many  of  his  hymns  are  deservedly 
popular,  Faber's  work,  as  a  vhole,  is  somewhat  disappointing,  and  we 
cannot  but  regret  that  many  of  his  poems  were  ever  written. 

Page  12.  The  first  and  fourth  stanzas  of  these  lines  by  Cardinal 
Newman  appear  to  be  a  rhythmical  echo  of  Cowper's — 

"  Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee, 
From  strife  and  tumult  far, 
From  scenes  where  Satan  wages  still 
His  most  successful  war." 

Page  16.  Our  greatest  sacred  poets  are  usually  held  to  be  Milton, 
George  Herbert,  Cowper,  Heber,  and  Keble,  yet  the  last  of  these — 
Keble — writes  in  the  year  1S25  :  "To  Spenser,  upon  the  whole,  the 
English  reader  must  revert  as  being  pre-eminently  the  sacred  poet  of  his 
country  ;  as  most  likely,  in  every  way,  to  answer  the  purposes  of  his 
art ;  especially  in  an  age  of  excitation  and  refinement,  in  which  the 
gentler  and  more  homely  beauties,  both  of  character  and  of  scenery, 
are  too  apt  to  be  despised  :  wdth  passion  and  interest  enough  to  attract 
the  most  ardent,  and  grace  enough  to  win  the  most  polished  ;  yet  by  a 
silent  preference  everywhere  inculcating  the  love  of  better  and  more 
enduring  things." 

Page  19.  "This  poem,"  writes  Dr.  George  Mac  Donald,  "is  artistic 
throughout.  Perhaps  the  fact,  of  which  we  are  informed  by  Izaak 
Walton,  that  Donne  caused  it  to  be  set  to  a  grave  and  solemn  tune,  and 
to  be  often  sung  to  the  organ  by  the  choristers  at  St.  Paul's  in  his  own 
hearing,  especially  at  the  evening  service,  may  have  something  to  do 
with  its  degree  of  perfection.  There  is  no  sign  of  his  usual  haste  about 
it.  It  is  even  elaborately  rhymed,  after  Norman  fashion,  the  rhymes  in 
each  stanza  being  consonant  with  the  rhymes  in  every  stanza. " 

This  is  so,  and  it  is  especially  interesting  and  noteworthy  at  the  present 
time  when  French  forms  of  verse,  like  the  ballade  and  the  chant  royal, 
are  so  much  in  fashion.     George  Herbert's  Aaron  (see  p.  221)  may  be 


N\  33' 

referred  to  as  another  poem  of  this  description  in  which  the  rhym 
the  same  in  all  the  stanzas. 

jc  20.     Miss  Christina  poem-  have  not,  \vc  think,  re- 

ceived as  yet  the  high  praise  which  they  deserve.  Her  brother,  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti,  appear-  to  have  been  aware  of  the  excellence  <  : 
work,  especially  as  regards  her  sonnets,  which  are  little,  if  at  all,  infe- 
rior to  those  by  Mrs.  Browning.  Mr.  Swinburne,  who  holds  her  p 
in  very  high  esteem,  especially  admires  her  Advent,  which  will  be  found 
at  p.  207,  and  her  brother  thought  her  sonnet  entitled  After  Commu- 
nion (p.  79)  one  of  her  nobl 

PnSe  35-  Some  slight  surprise  is  naturally  stirred  within  us  when 
we  find  a  playwright  composing  devotional  poetry,  yet  Ben  Jonson  has 
left  us,  in  addition  to  this  Hymn  to  God  the  Father,  several  other  sacred 
poems  of  great  excellence.  His  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  and  his  lines  To 
Heaven  may  be  mentioned  amongst  others. 

Page  37.  This  graceful  hymn  I  find  in  the  Savoy  hymn-book  (as 
also  that  by  the  late  Dean  Stanley).  I  have  to  thank  Archdeacon 
Farrar  for  kindly  permitting  me  to  include  it  and  the  Christmas  Carol 
given  at  p.  305. 

Page  38.  The  poetry  of  Keble — we  refer  more  especially  to  his 
"  Christian  Year  " — has  undoubtedly  had  an  extraordinary  circulation. 
In  less  than  twenty  years  the  "  Christian  Year  "  passed  through  some 
thirty  editions,  and  each  edition  consisted  of  3,000  copies.  Professor 
Wilson  (Christopher  North)  eulogized  it  in  BlackivoooT s  Magazine,  and 
a  writer  in  the  Qua?'terly  Review,  referring  to  it,  observed,  "  In  this 
volume  old  Herbert  would  have  recognized  a  kindred  spirit,  and  "Walton 
would  have  gone  on  a  pilgrimage  to  make  acquaintance  with  the  author." 
In  recent  years,  however,  an  opposite  tide  has  set  in,  and  we  hear  more 
often  words  of  disparagement  used  respecting  it  than  that  it  is  wrorthy 
of  our  admiration.  I  must  confess  that,  while  the  whole  of  Keble's 
poetry  does  not  greatly  delight  me,  there  are  some  of  his  poems  that 
seem  to  be  of  a  high  order.  Especially  is  this  the  case  as  regards  his 
lines,  "O  Youth  and  Joy,  your  airy  tread,"  given  at  p.  2S6,  which  are 
worthy  of  Wordsworth. 


332  NOTES. 

Page  42.  Henry  Yaughan  must  share  with  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  his 
title  to  the  foremost  place  among  the  poets  of  Wales.  Yaughan  was 
the  forerunner  of  Wordsworth,  while  Clough's  most  intimate  friend,  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold,  is  now  Wordsworth's  most  illustrious  disciple.  The 
reader  will  do  well  to  compare  Vaughan's  poem,  The  Retreat  (p.  238), 
with  Wordsworth's  Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality y  as  the  latter  is 
manifestly  the  echo  of  the  former,  although  unquestionably  the  finer 
poem.  The  main  thought  is  the  same  in  both  compositions,  namely, 
that  our  life  on  earth  is  not  our  first  existence ;  and  with  this  is  coupled  in 
both  poems  the  supposition  that  in  our  childhood,  in  our  "angel-infancy," 
we  have  some  "intimations  of  immortality,"  and  behold  some  "shadows 
of  eternity."  The  similarity  of  the  two  poems  is  well  defined  by  Dr. 
MacDonald  in  his  "  England's  Antiphon."  "  Wordsworth's  poem,"  he 
adds,  "is  the  profounder  in  its  philosophy,  as  well  as  far  the  grander 
and  lovelier  in  its  poetry ;  but  in  the  moral  relation  Vaughan's  poem 
is  the  more  definite  of  the  two,  and  gives  us  in  its  close,  poor  as  that  is 
compared  with  the  rest  of  it,  just  what  we  feel  is  wanting  in  Words- 
worth's— the  hope  of  return  to  the  bliss  of  childhood." 

Several  of  his  other  poems  also  resemble  those  of  Wordsworth,  as  for 
instance  the  lines  beginning — 

1 '  I  walked  the  other  day,  to  spend  my  hour, 
Into  a  field, 
Where  I  sometimes  had  seen  the  soil  to  yield 
A  gallant  flower." 

Page  47.  "This  ode,"  writes  Bishop  Warburton,  "was  written  in 
imitation  of  the  famous  sonnet  of  Hadrian  to  his  departing  soul  ;  but  as 
much  superior  to  his  original  in  sense  and  sublimity  as  the  Christian 
religion  is  to  the  Pagan  "  (Warburton's  edition  of  Pope's  Works,  vol.  i. 

P.  133)' 
The  following  lines  are  the  so-called  sonnet  of  Hadrian  : 

"  Animula  vagula,  blandula, 
Hospes  comesque  corporis, 
Quae  nunc  abibis  in  loca 
Pallidula,  rigida,  nudula  ; 
Nee,  ut  soles,  dabis  jocos." 

I  must  confess  that  I  see  little  similarity  between  the  two  poems,  but 


NOTES. 

Hadrian's  lines  have  been  the  source  of  inspiration  of  a  large  numl 
poems,  imitations,  and  paraphrases,  Mrs.  Barbauld's  well-known 
on  "Life"  being  amongst  the  number.     The  followi 

Trior's  translation  : 

u  Poor,  little,  pretty,  fluttering  Thing  ! 
Must  we  no  longer  live  together? 

And  dost  thou  prune  thy  trembling  wing, 
To  take  thy  flight  thou  know'st  not  whithi 

Thy  humorous  Vein,  thy  pleasing  Folly, 

Lies  all  neglected,  all  forgot  ; 
And  pensive,  wavering,  melancholy, 

Thou  dread'st  and  hop'st  thou  know'st  not  what. 

As  regards  Pope's  poem,  however,  the  fact  seems  to  be  that  when  asked 
by  Steele  to  write  an  Ode  on  Hadrian's  lines  he  imitated  not  Hadrian, 
but  Thomas  Flatman,  a  barrister,  poet,  and  painter,  who  died  the  year 
Pope  was  born,  and  whose  poem,  A  Thought  of  Death,  contains  the 
following  lines  : 

"  Fainting,  gasping,  trembling,  crying, 
Panting,  groaning,  speechless,  dying. 

*  *  *  * 

Methinks  I  hear  some  gentle  spirit  say, 
l>e  not  fearful,  come  away." 

Page  65.  An  Italian  translation,  by  Mr.  Gladstone,  of  this  beautiful 
hymn  will  be  found  in  the  NhietecntJi  Century  for  September,  1SS3,  of 
which  the  following  is  the  first  verse : 

"  Senti,  senti,  anima  mia, 
(Fu  il  signore  che  sentia) 
Gesu  parla,  e  parla  a  te  : 
1  Di,  Figliuolo,  ami  Me?'" 

Page  70.  George  Herbert  was  a  descendant  of  the  Earls  of  Pembroke 
and  a  younger  brother  of  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury.  He  was  educated 
at  Westminster  School  and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  was  pre- 
sented to  the  living  of  Bemerton  by  King  Charles  I.  in  the  year  1630. 

Richard  Baxter  pays  the  following  tribute  to  the  excellence  of  his 


334  NOTES. 

poems  :  ,;  But  I  must  confess,  after  all, "that,  next  the  Scripture  poems, 
there  are  none  so  savoury  to  me  as  Mr.  George  Herbert's  and  Mr.  George 
Sandys'.  I  know  that  Cowley  and  others  far  exceed  Herbert  in  wit  and 
accurate  composure ;  but  as  Seneca  takes  with  me  above  all  his  contem- 
poraries, because  he  speaketh  things  by  words,  feelingly  and  seriously, 
like  a  man  that  is  past  jest ;  so  Herbert  speaks  to  God,  like  one  that 
really  belie veth  a  God,  and  whose  business  in  the  world  is  most  with 
God.  Heart-work  and  Heaven-work  make  up  his  books  "  {Prefatory 
Address  to  Baxters  Poetical  Fragments). 

For  details  of  his  life  the  reader  should  refer  to  Izaak  Walton's  Life 
of  Herbert. 

The  following  lines,  entitled  Employment,  are  exceedingly  quaint  and 
typical  of  Herbert's  style  : 

"  He  that  is  weary,  let  him  sit. 
My  soul  would  stir 
And  trade  in  courtesies  and  wit  ; 

Quitting  the  fur 
To  cold  complexions  needing  it. 

Man  is  no  star,  but  a  quick  coal 

Of  mortal  fire  : 
Who  blows  it  not,  nor  doth  control 

A  faint  desire, 
Lets  his  own  ashes  choke  his  soul." 
*  *  *  * 

r*aSe  73-  These  lines  by  Sir  Thomas  Browne  should  be  compared 
with  Bishop  Ken's  Morning  and  Evening  Hymns.  It  will  be  seen  that 
the  Bishop,  who  was  only  five  years  of  age  when  the  Religio  Medici 
was  published,  has  borrowed  somewhat  extensively  from  Sir  Thomas 
Browne's  poem.  The  Bishop  begins  :  "  Awake,  my  soul,  and  with  the 
sun  thy  daily  stage  of  duty  run,"  which  appears  to  be  copied  from 
Browne's  "  Awake,  .  .  .  and  with  as  active  vigour  run  thy  course  as  doth 
the  nimble  sun."  Again  the  Bishop  writes  :  "  Teach  me  to  live  that  I 
may  dread  the  grave  as  little  as  my  bed," — which  also  appears  to  be 
copied  from  Browne's  lines  : — 

"  O  make  me  try 

By  sleeping  what  it  is  to  die, 

And  as  gently  lay  my  head 

On  my  grave  as  now  my  bed." 


NOTES. 

•  ■  '  my  drowsy  h  the 

Bishop  reproduces  :  "  Dull  sleep,  of  sense  me  to  deprive,  I  an  but  half 
my  time  alive  !  n    And  Browne's  lines  : 

4<  O  come  that  hour  when  I  shall  never 
Sleep  again,  but  wake  for  ever," 

are  manifestly  copied  in  the  Bishop's  couplet  : 

11  O  when  shall  I,  in  endless  day, 
For  ever  chase  dark  sleep  away." 

Page   S6.      This  poem   (as  also  Dr.  G.  MacDonald's   "  Marriage 

'")  was  published  in  Lays  of  'the  Sanctuary  (1859).    I  have  to  thank 
Mr.  Emmet  for  kindly  permitting  me  to  include  it  in  this  selection. 

Page  113.  Isaac  Watts  is  said  to  have  remarked  that  he  would 
sooner  have  written  this  poem  by  Charles  Wesley  than  all  his  own 
poems.  It  is  a  composition  full  of  that  spiritual  force  which  springs 
from  conviction,  but  the  same  may  be  said  of  many  of  Watts's  own 
poems,  and  especially  of  that  on  "  The  Character  of  Christ  "  (p.  318). 

Page  117.  These  characteristic  lines  are  taken  from  Mr.  Stevenson's 
Underwoods.  I  have  to  thank  Messrs.  Chatto  and  Windus  for  allowing 
me  to  include  them  in  this  selection. 

v  Page  133.  A  writer  in  the  Athenctum  (1879)  observes  that  "  there 
are  not  many  things  in  our  Lyra  Sacra  which  surpass  "The  Signals  of 
Levi  ;"  and  "The  Silent  Tower  of  Bottreau  "  (p.  160)  is  equally  re- 
markable. Were  I  asked  to  name  a  poet  whose  writings  especially 
deserve  to  be  better  known,  I  should  mention  the  author  of  these 
poems.  Born  at  Plymouth  in  1803,  Hawker  married,  when  he  was  only 
nineteen  years  of  age,  Charlotte,  daughter  of  Colonel  Wrey  I'Ans,  of 
Whitstone  House,  near  Bude  Haven.  Cornwall.  Four  years  later  he 
gained  the  Newdigate  Prize  at  Oxford,1  and  in  the  following  year  (1S2S) 
took  his  degree  of  15.  A.  For  more  than  forty  years  he  was  Vicar  of 
Morwenstow,  Cornwall,   and  he  wrote  and   published   the   following 


1  Among  other  authors  represented  in  this  selection  who  also  gained 
the  Newdigate  Prize  may  be  mentioned  Heber,  Faber,  Milman,  the 
late  Dean  Stanley,  and  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold. 


336  NOTES. 

volumes  of  verse:  "  Tendrils  by  Reuben"  (1821),  "  Records  of  the 
Western  Shore"  (1832),  second  series  of  "Records,"  (Sic.  (1836), 
"  Ecclesia,  a  Volume  of  Poems"  (1840),  "Reeds  shaken  with  the 
Wind"  (1843),  Second  Series  do.  (1844),  "Echoes  from  Old  Cornwall" 
(1846),  "The  Quest  of  the  Sangraal"  (1863),  and  "Cornish  Ballads 
and  other  Poems  "  (1869).  He  died  at  Plymouth  in  the  year  1875,  and 
the  evening  before  his  death  was  received  into  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church.  The  following  lines  are  full  of  a  peaceful  grace  indicative  of 
the  life  of  their  author  : 

THE  TAMAR  SPRING. 

Fount  of  a  rushing  river  !  wild  flowers  wreathe 
The  home  where  thy  first  waters  sunlight  claim  ; 

The  lark  sits  hushed  beside  thee,  while  I  breathe, 
Sweet  Tamar  spring  !  the  music  of  thy  name. 

On  !  through  the  goodly  channel,  on  !  to  the  sea  ! 

Pass  amid  heathery  vale,  tall  rock,  fair  bough  : 
But  never  more  with  footsteps  pure  and  free, 

Or  face  so  meek  with  happiness  as  now. 

Fair  is  the  future  scenery  of  thy  days, 
Thy  course  domestic,  and  thy  paths  of  pride  : 

Depths  that  give  back  the  soft-eyed  violet's  gaze, 
Shores  where  tall  navies  march  to  meet  the  tide. 

Thine,  leafy  Tetcott,  and  those  neighbouring  walls, 
Noble  Northumberland's  embowered  domain  ; 

Thine,  Cartha  Martha,  Morwell's  rocky  falls, 
Storied  Cotehele,  and  Ocean's  loveliest  plain. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Thou  heedest  not  !  thy  dream  is  of  the  shore, 
Thy  heart  is  quick  with  life  ;  on  !  to  the  sea  ! 

How  will  the  voice  of  thy  far  streams  implore 
Again  amid  these  peaceful  weeds  to  be  ! 

My  Soul  !  my  Soul  !  a  happier  choice  be  thine  — 
Thine  the  hushed  valley,  and  the  lonely  sod  ; 

P'alse  dreams,  far  vision,  hollow  hope  resign, 
Fast  by  our  Tamar  spring,  alone  with  God  ! 


NOTES. 

Dr.  Johnson  was  exceedingly  fond  of  this  hymn,  and  i 
to  repeat  it  with  a  face  beaming  with  enthusiasm.     Hartley  I 
liked  it  the  Least  of  Addison's  hymns.     ''I  cannot  i 

"with  the   'spangles1  and  the   'shining  frame.'     They  remind  m 
tambour  work.      Perhaps,  if  I  had  never  read  the  psalm,  I  might  think 
the    verses    fine"     (Abbey    and    Overton's    English     Church     in 

Century). 

Page  224.  Isaac  Williams  was  one  of  the  authors  who  wrote  the 
Lyra  Apostolka,  the  two  other  principal  contributors  being  Keble  and 
Cardinal  Newman. 

"There  is  a  fine  sonnet  by  Isaac  Williams,"  writes  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti,  "  evidently  on  the  death  of  a  worldly  man,  and  he  wrote 
other  good  ones  "  (Mr.  Hall  Caine's  Recollections  of  Rossetti,  p.  249). 

Page  228.  This  poem,  as  also  The  Garden  of  the  Soul  and  At  His 
Feet,  are  taken  from  the  Rev.  Richard  Wilton's  Lyrics  Sylvan  and 
Sacred,  in  which  volume  will  be  found  some  interesting  translations 
from  the  Latin  sacred  poetry  of  George  Herbert. 

Page  253.  Richard  Baxter  was  born  in  the  year  16 15  at  Rowton, 
in  Hampshire.  He  is  said  to  have  written  more  than  one  hundred 
books,  and  BoswTell,  probably  embarrassed  by  so  large  a  choice,  records 
that  on  one  occasion  he  inquired  of  Dr.  Johnson  which  of  Baxter's 
works  he  should  read: — "  Read  any  of  them,"  replied  the  Doctor, 
"they  are  all  good  !  " 

More  definite  and  serviceable,  however,  is  the  advice  of  Coleridge, 
who  writes  : — "  Pray,  read  with  great  attention  Baxter's  Life  of  him- 
self; it  is  an  inestimable  work.  ...  I  could  almost  as  soon  doubt  the 
Gospel  verity  as  Baxter's  veracity." 

There  are  writers  whose  wrorks  charm  by  reason  of  their  lucidity, 
good  sense,  and  practical  intelligence,  rather  than  of  any  special  gift  of 
erudition  or  grandeur  of  diction.  Isaac  Barrow  may  be  given  as  one 
illustrious  example  of  such  writers,  and  Richard  Baxter  is  another. 
Baxter  wras,  it  is  needless  to  state,  a  prose-writer  and  theologian  rather 
than  a  poet,  yet  the  poem  we  have  included  in  this  selection  is  one  of  a 
great  merit. 

Page  310.  Mr.  G.  A.  Simcox,  referring  to  the  four  potts,  Herbert, 
Crashaw,  Vaughan,  and  Sandys,  observes:  "  Sandys  was  the  only  one 

23 


333  NOTES. 

who  could  write  smooth,  clear,  and  vigorous  verse — an  accomplishment 
which  requires  perfect  self-possession,  or  overmastering  inspiration,  or 
good  models.  Sandys  wrote  before  Waller  and  Denham  as  well  as 
the  average  versifiers  who  came  after  Dryden.  His  classical  transla- 
tions are  not  equal  to  his  scriptural  paraphrases,  and  if  he  had  finished 
the  /Eneid,  Dryden  would  have  left  it  alone." 

He  was  the  son  of  Sandys,  Archbishop  of  York,  and  was  born  at 
Bishopthorpe  in  the  year  1577.  After  spending  the  greater  part  of  his 
life  in  Eastern  travel  he  returned  to  his  native  country  and  employed 
the  remainder  of  his  years  in  composing  sacred  poetry.  Richard 
Baxter  writes  :  "  .  .  .  It  did  me  good  when  Mrs.  Wyat  invited  me  to 
see  Boxley  Abbey  in  Kent,  to  behold  upon  the  old  stone  wall  in  the 
garden,  a  summer-house  with  this  inscription  in  great  golden  letters, 
that  in  that  place  Mr.  George  Sandys,  after  his  travels  over  the  world, 
retired  himself  for  his  poetry  and  contemplations." 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 


Addison,  Joseph  (1672-1719),  xxn.,  xcv.,  clxvii. 
Alford,  Henry  (1810-1871),  11.,  xl.,  xcvii. 
Arnold,  Matthew,  xxviii.,  xxxix.,  lxxiv. 
Austin,  John  (1613-1669),  lxxxviii.,  cxix. 

Baring-Gould,  Sabine,  xcvl,  cxlvi. 

Baxter,  Richard  (1615-1691),  cxxxviii. 

Beaumont,  Sir  John  (1582-1628),  cv. 

Blake,  William  (1757-1828),  1.,  lxxiii.,  cxi. 

bonar,  horatius,  xlii.,  c,  cxli. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas  (1605-1682),  xlvh. 

Bronte,  Emily  (1818-1849),  lxyii. 

Browning,   Elizabeth    Barrett    (1809-1861),   lx.,   cil,   cxxx., 

clxxiii. 
Bryant,  William  Cullen  {b.  1797),  xn.,  lii.,  cxlyiii. 
Byrom,  John  (1691-1763),  xli. 
Byron,  Lord  (1788-1824),  cxxiii.,  clii. 

Campbell,  Thomas  (1777-1844),  clxii. 
Carey,  Patrick  (b.  1622),  lviii. 
Carlyle,  Thomas  (1795-1881),  clxiii. 
Clough,  Arthur  Hugh  (1819-1861),  xxi.,  lxx.,  xcix. 
Coleridge,  Hartley  (1796-1849),  lxxii.,  cyil,  cxxyiii.,  clk 
Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  (1772-1834),  xliy.,  clyi. 
Cowper,  William  (1731-1800),  xliii.,  lxxxiy.,  clxxi. 
Crashaw,  Richard  (1612-1650),  xxxi. 

Dekker,  Thomas  (d.  1639),  clyiii. 
Donne,  John  (1573-1631),  xm. 


340  LIST  OF  A  UTHORS. 

Dowdex,  Edward,  xxx.,  lxiv.,  xcviii. 
Drummoxd,  William  (1585-1649),  xcil,  cxx. 
Drydex,  Johx  (1631-1700),  LXI. 

Emmet,  Johx,  lv. 

Eliot,  George  (1820-1881),  lxix. 

Faber,  Frederick  William  (1815-1863),  vn.,  cxlii. 
Farrar,  Frederick  William,  xxv.,  clx. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watsox,  lxxx.,  lxxxvii. 
Gosse,  Edmund,  lxxxv. 
Grigg,  Joseph  [b.  1768),  li. 

Habixgtox,  William  (1605-1654),  xlviii. 
Hawker,  Robert  Stephex  (1803-1875),  lxxvi.,  lxxxix,  cxv. 
Heber,  Regixald  (1783-1826),  iv.,  lvil,  cxxvi.,  cxxxv. 
Herbert,  George  (1593-1632),  x.,  xxiil,  xlvl,  cxxii.,  clxv. 
Herrick,  Robert  (1591-1662),  xiv.,  xxxv.,  lxxix.,  cxliv. 
Huxt,  Leigh  (1784-1859),  cxlv. 

Joxsox,  Bex  (1573-1637),  xxiv. 

Keble,  Johx  (1792-1866),  xxvi.,  lxxxiii.,  cvi.,  cxxl,  cliv. 
Kixgsley,  Charles  (1819-1875),  xv.,  liii.,  cxiii.,  cxxxiv. 

LOXGFELLOW,  HEXRY  WADSWORTH  (1807-1885),  XXXVII.,  CXIV. 

Lynch,  Thomas  Toke  (1818-1871),  xxxviii.,  xci.,  cxxxix. 
Lyte,  Hexry  Fraxcis  (1 793-1847),  xvn. 

Mac  Donald,  George,  xlix. 

Mant,  Richard  (1 776-1848),  ex. 

Marvell,  Axdrew  (1620-1678),  ci. 

Milman,  Hexry  Hart  (1791-1868),  xciv.,  cliii. 

Milton,  Johx  (1608-1674),  xxvu.,  lxii.,  clxxii. 

Montgomery,  James  (1771-1854),  cviii.,  clxviii. 

Moore,  Thomas  (1779-1852),  lxviii.,  cxl. 

Morixe,  George  (1809-1872),  clv. 

Morris,  Lewis,  lxxxi.,  cxvi. 

Myers,  Frederick  W.  H.,  xxxvi.,  lxxxii.,  cxxxvii. 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS. 

1  S-1S66),  CX 1 1. 
r,  W.  K..  1  w.wi. 
Newm  .  \  III.,  I. VI. 

Pai  Turner,  xix.,  t.xxviii. 

ander  (1688-1744),  xxxii.,  'xxxii. 
Procter,  Adelaide  A.  (1S24-1S64),  exxix. 

Qua  1 592-1644),  cix.,  CXLIII. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter  (1552-1618),  vi. 

setti,  Christina,  xx.,  l.,  liv.,  lxxv.,  clxi. 

Sandys,  George  (1577-1648),  clxvi. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter  (1771-1832),  xxxiv.,  clix.,  clxix. 

Southwell,  Robert  (i 560-1 595),  lix. 

Spenser,  Edmund  (1 552-1598),  xi. 

Stanley,  Arthur  Penrhyn  (1815-1881),  xyiii. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis,  lxvi. 

Taylor,  Jeremy  (1613-1667),  v.,  lxxvii. 

Trench,  Richard  Chenevix  (1807-1886),  xvi.,  xxxiil,  cxxxi., 

CXLVII. 

Vaughan,  Henry  (1621-1695),  xxix.,  cm.,  exxxm. 

Waddington,  Samuel,  lxxi.,  lxxxvi.,  cxxv. 
Watts,  Isaac  (1674-1748),  ix.,  clxx. 
Wesley,  Charles  (1 708-1 788),  lxv. 
Wesley,  John  (1 703-1 791),  clxi  v. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf,  cxviil,  clvii. 
Williams,  Isaac  (1802-1865),  xc,  xciil,  cxxiv. 
Wilton,  Richard,  xlv.,  cxxvii.,  cl. 
Wither,  George  (1588-1667),  civ. 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry  (1 568-1639),  cxvu. 
Wordsworth,  William  (1 770-1850),  in. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

Abou   Bex   Adiiem,  may    his   tribe 

increase    271 

A  little  cake  he  asked  for,  that  was  all  194 

Angel  of  charity,  who  from  above 262 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief    314 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden 

slumbers 297 

Art  thou  weary,  art  thou  languid 202 

A  spirit  passed  before  me :  I  beheld  223 

A  Sultan  had  a  daughter  sweet 27.2 

Ave  Maria!  Maiden  mild  !    298 

Beautiful  flowers  round  wisdom's 

secret  well  224 

Behold  !  a  Stranger's  at  the  door 80 

Blessed,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken- 
hearted       17 

Blest  be  thy  love,  dear  Lord 159 

Blest    pair     of     sirens,    pledges    of 

heaven's  joy  40 

Breathe  from  the  gentle  south,  O  Lord  154 

But  how  shall  we  be  glad?     48 

By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill 242 

Calm    me,  my   God,   and  keep  me 

calm 179 

Can  I  see  another'swoe 200 

Christ !    I   am  Christ's !   and  let  the 

name  suffice  you    ..  54 

Christ    is    not    dead, — so    spake,    in 

accents  low 157 

Come,  Holy  One,  in  love    277 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown  ...  113 

Creator  Spirit  !  by  whose  aid    05 

Dear  Jesu,  when,  when  will  it  be  ...  214 

Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust  _ ...  289 
Even  like    two  little    bank-dividing 

brooks 268 


page 
Fair  eastern  star,  that  art  ordained 

to  run  190 

Far  from  my  heavenly  home  24 

Far  from  the  world,  O  Lord,  I  flee  ...  322 

Father  of  all  !  in  every  age   235 

For  ever  with  the  Lord  ! 195 

Forth  from  the  city  gate 244 

Forth  from  the  dark  and  stormy  sky  6 

God  and  Father,  great  and  holy 37 

God   called  the   nearest   angels   who 

dwell  with  him  above  212 

God's  child  in  Christ  adopted,--Christ 

myall  67 

God   of   the    thunder!    from    whose 

cloudy  seat 106 

God,  who  at  sundry  times,  in  manners 

many    247 

Go  worship  at  Immanuel's  feet 318 

Gracious  Spirit,  dwell  with  me 164 

Happy  those  early  days  when  I   238 

Hearken,  oh  hearken  !  let  your  souls 

behind  you 182 

Hark,  my  soul  !  it  is  the  Lord 6$ 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morn- 
ing star     291 

Hear,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted 

flock 276 

Hear  me,  O  God    35 

Hear  the  voice  of  the  bard    1 

Heart  of  Christ,  O  cup  most  golden  260 

He  liveth  long  who  liveth  well  !    63 

Holiness  on  the  head  221 

Honey  in  the  lion's  mouth 23 

How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord  312 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught    ...  210 

I   come  to  thee  not  asking  aught,  I 

crave 1 08 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

'  .  that  life  may  ' 

I                                                       -  i  1 7 

i               Rowers  to  strew  thy  way   ...  309 

1             and  peace  in  the  bright  earth  175 
I  love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love, 

the  earth 197 

I  love  and  love  not  :  Lord,  it  breaks 

my  heart  85 

In  holy  hooks  we  read  how  Clod  hath 

spoken 126 

In  the  fields  with  their  flocks  abiding  299 

In  the  hour  of  my  distress  52 

I  paced  along 144 

Is  this  a  fast  to  keep    270 

I  would  have  gone;    God   bade   me 

stay  29 

Let  folly  praise  that  fancy  loves 92 

Little  children,  dwell  in  love 61 

Linger  no  more,  my  beloved 84 

Lol  God  is  here!  letusadore  307 

Lord  Christ,  if  thou  art  with  us,  and 

these  eyes    176 

Lord,  come  away 138 

Lord,  I  have  knelt  and  tried  to  pray 

to-night    44 

Lord,  leave  us  not  to  wander  lonely  86 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell   141 

Love  thee  !  _  oh    thou,     the   world's 

eternal  sire  !    170 

Mary  sat  at  Jesus' feet  279 

Most  glorious  Lord  of  life  !   that  on 

this  day   16 

My  fairest  child,  I  have  no  song  to 

give  you  204 

My  Redeemer  and  my  Lord 57 

My  soul,  go  boldly  forth 253 

My  spirit  longeth  for  thee      62 

My  sun  has  set ;  I  dwell 130 

Nigh   to  the   place    where   he    was 

crucified  68 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill  ...  295 

No  coward  soul  is  mine 118 

No  heavenly  maid  we  here  behold  ...  143 
Not   war,   nor  hurrying   troops  from 

plain  to  plain 2 

Not  with   a  choir  of  angels  without 

number T55 

Now  is  the  noon  of  sorrow's  night  ...  45 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are  326 

O  gladsome  light  205 

Oh,    Captain   of   God's  host,  whose 

dreadful  might  226 

Oh,   could  thy    grave  at    home,    at 

Carthage,  be! 41 

Oh,  righteous  doom  that  they  who 

make 275 


0  Jesus,  146 

1  I  Lord,  my  heart  is  sick 9 

O  Lordi  my  God,  do  thou  thy  holy  will  1   1 

O  Master,  it  is  good  to  be 25 

()  may  I  join  the  elixir  invisible 

On    earth    he    walked,    yet   did   in 

heaven  dwell 225 

O   only    Source   of  all  our  light  and 

life 30 

O  praise  the  Lord,  his  wonders  tell  310 
O  Son  of  Man,  great  Shepherd  of  the 

sheep    228 

O  thou  whose  image  in  the  shrine   ...  177 

O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past    13 

O  years  and  age,  farewell  20 

:    O  Youth  and  joy,  your  airy  tread  ...  286 

Praise  to  the  Holiest  in  the  height  12 

Red  o'er  the  forest  peers  the  setting 

sun    218 

Rise,  O  my  soul,  with  thy  desires  to 

heaven 8 

Round  the  Lord  in  glory  seated  199 

Run,  shepherds,  run,  where  Bethle- 
hem blest  appears 166 

Softly  and  gently,  dearly-ransomed 

soul   89 

So  here  hath  been  dawning 306 

Speak  low  to  me,    my  Saviour,  low 

and  sweet    94 

Spirit!  whose  various  energies 58 

j    Star  of  morn  and  even 27 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  voice  of  God  3 
Sweet   baby,   sleep !    what    ails    my 

dear  187 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright  15 

Sweetest   Lord!  that  wert  so  blest...  281 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day  317 
The  Assyrian  came  down   like    the 

wolf  on  the  fold 282 

The  bird  let  loose  in  Eastern  skies  ...  120 

The  child  leans  on  its  parent's  breast  163 
The  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,  at 

hand 21 

The    last     and^    greatest    herald    of 

heaven's  King 216 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare...  32 

The  merry  world  did  on  a  day  33 

The  moon  was  bright  that  Paschal 

night '. 173 

The  mountain  that  the  moon  doth  kiss  158 

The  night  is  come.     Like  to  the  day  73 

There  is  light  on  Hebron  now  133 

The  sad  and  solemn  night 82 

These  are  thy  glorious  works,  Parent 

of  good    324 


344 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

The  snow  lies  deep  throughout  the 

night 168 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high  172 

The  thought  of  God,  the  thought  of 

thee  265 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of 

light 42 

11  They  have  no  more  wine,"  she  said  77 
This  Advent  moon  shines  cold  and 

clear 301 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy 

morn 97 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave  !    but  we 

will  not  deplore  thee 90 

Thou  blessed  day  !  I  will  not  call  thee 

last    230 

Though  the}- may  crowd 207 

Thou  say'st,  Take  up  thy  cross    139 

Through  that  pure  virgin-shrine  184 

Tintagel  bells  ring  o'er  the  tide    160 

To-day  'tis  Elim,  with  its  palms  and 

wells 263 

To  mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love  127 

Two  sayings  of  the  Holy  Scriptures 

beat  233 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame    47 


PAGE 

What  we  when  face  to  face  we  see...  123 
What     gospel,     still     what     gospel? 

Christ,  yea,  Christ    125 

We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will    128 

When  darkness  fills  the  western  sky  20p" 
When   for  the  thorns   with  which  I 

long,  too  long    181 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved  ...  50 

When  I  survey  the  bright  75 

When  Jordan  hushed  his  waters  still  304 

When  our  heads  are  bowed  with  woe  284 
Where  is  thy  favoured  haunt,  eternal 

voice 33 

Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled 70 

Why  feedest  thou  on  husks  so  coarse 

and  rude 234 

Why  should  I  call  thee  Lord,  who 

art  my  God 79 

Wilt   thou   forgive   that   sin  when   I 

begun  19 

Worldly  designs,  fears,  hopes,  fare- 
well!     91 

Ye  hermits  blest,  ye  holy  maids  ......  192 

11  Yes,   write   it   in   the   rock,''  Saint 

Bernard  said  60 


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